


*« * r '*.** ..• 


£* ’•'•'* „ "<S> * e> » o v Of 

C\ a? »L/w t *>■ 0 ***** C\. aV «•> 

cy * * 'O. aV »■ jA A «* ♦ ^Vrflrikvto. * &L 

°*V '( gWi ,; V-^ '*'£ 6 

** v \ ■• 




V 



. . *‘ A <. '».T< .0’ 

o A* * • ^. V 0° t< ” 
" '"b^ :iim^' *+# i 

« «5 * 

v*^‘\* 0 ' .. \y^' <v % *» 



’* C* A? \L^'* 

<*1 * A - « *P * A^ * <• 

V* * f(C\ SB/4k p ^rv fijv’ ♦ 

vv .‘$M Wh,\ s-v 

rh C n -* SSamidiy* a .V-’U 1 

. o'M/JS^NF * v >>. 

*T’ ^ ♦ A ^ ^ v ■>«».»* 


.If-L* *, ^ A,* v t -K m ■% 

<.\*^ssfflV- f Q ^ ’%-ct 



> jP ^ * 

.^-.j ^ <**. * 

. *rr.»* a° *• 

Sf. a? . ___. , 

<?„ A . ^SKJfe . ^ 




W 


’ t, °*° ^ O, “•»’* A° V *., 

V*i4iv*- ^, , v N ♦ • •*. V. AT .jv-, <*> 

«& -6 . • *P. a^ »._a*G, 3V_ <*■ -V 


«* <*4 ♦ 

** v % 'J8t‘* : J8^’ ** v \ 

> <• '••** *&* *07?* A l. ... .. 

r#, < 0 . ‘<^w> ° ^ o° .♦ 

OA^aPk- -MM^s +.<( 




r J-Qf 


o * 


o V 






^ V cv .0 V i‘VL% > O’ * * • o„ %> 

v A- ••*• "w^ •■^ % - 

/ \ '-^K' a /% ; -^®*‘ ./v '-Sif. ; 

c 0 "*-* * * * aO t i».. 





* ^,7’' o° 

-V * • • 

** a” * * 

"^a /\y s 

<P n & ♦ 


’- ^o« 

; /°- 

- » — , •?.' Cl 

C, * e . « ^ 



«> «• . ^WWBU|r ^ 

.vT' vv 

* ♦. ^o xO •' 



,♦ o - t * f ^ ^ 

% V v' V ,'“. \ *'"’“ o^° 

****-% ^ ^ ^ 

t ^W/^n^WW 1 '<*<' 

* ° u/ nuur 

^ A Cr ^ <s^ ♦ *.y^* ,^- 

0° aA .v;•, 'b o^ .. 

<a a i rVXXW|V*|S. * v .M j> j^yTT/1. * * ' 


,v-^ * 

A 7 A, o 

^ V • 




A’’ 




...’* ^- -o .,, 

* - M 0 , - 













vw*v 'o 

Op- $*• *** * *-‘ i * A 





. 1 *g 

V w * 

• ^ ** * 
r vv • 


♦ ^ 


% **•*»•■" A. v 
> CT 1 . <0 »* ", 


• /\. 



,-U^. . <*'<■.» 

<1 , v ' • <£. 


%>*?&'' r v*^* 

,***©* ^>. A v ♦ •V/* V* 



° ^>v ** 

* aVV *„ 

* 4' <?' ° 



AV 

V *«*?* ^ <9 

' %/r ;M£a\ **.J> * 


Ora 


**•* A <v O 

| .&#££&. ^ u , 

<ty Cv * 

.v O * 









t ° / 

I: ^o ;^| 

T 

►TJt, <f 

•» 

«t 

^ *3ij| 

r ♦ rt ^*, <* vMA 

♦ rxJ ti*> v.Ni 

tr^WV •* 
^s/W o 

v\S^ ' 

« 





' « ♦ * 


,. •«^-' /% V 

* A <, '»..* .0^ 'V * 

■• ' d &8kir. %. 0 < 0 : >A*. °^ ,-j 

• a' ^ ". 

cv *• 

,...'% "’ <y ti v^ "”" y ..... % ‘ 

v ^ y s s&tor . •% > -W/k- ^ a 1 * 

* 4 V ^ 0 /Av *4 <*\ *^315% 4 X <* °. 

R.I* VV <^ "«.** A (y *b *<??** A <X "ora 

.A .*-*■»*. ^ ■%. 0 ,•,^5^. O ^ ’t- 

<y 



^ <4 


’o K 


>>° ■v « 

^ * *fi 
^ * 







* P y_ * 





.* y ■ o 0 *.W,' o 0 ^ % V 

^ ■'.»»'-A?- °* *•''■ /• % L *‘- e 

+ ^ V » l*y« C\ AV 




.'Oy 




































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































* 




































THE POSTMARK CARRIED ACROSS THE COUNTRY 
“The first of the many postmarks I expect to have” 





AFOOT AND ALONE 

FROM WASHINGTON, D. C, TO 
SAN FRANCISCO 


BY 

MINNIE HILL WOOD 



OK# CKristopKcr Publishing House 
Boston, U. S. A. 



.W7-5" 


Copyright 1924 

By The Christopher Publishing House 


MADE IN AMFRIfA 


apr-9 7-1 

©C1A777865 

■'P' Z t . /' 





FOREWORD 


“A woman, alone, can safely walk every step of the way 
across the United States.” 

To prove this assertion, I left Washington, D. C., June 7th, 
claiming I could reach San Francisco by December 31st. 

I arrived in San Francisco on November 11th, over seven 
weeks ahead of time. Refusing offers of rides from everything 
on wheels—teams, automobiles, hand-cars, trains—from Wash¬ 
ington, D. C., I walked across Maryland, Southwestern Pennsyl¬ 
vania, to Pittsburg; west through Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, North¬ 
ern Missouri, Kansas, and Colorado; from Colorado Springs 
through the mountains to Canon City; followed the tracks of 
the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad through the gorges and 
canyons where there is no wagon road; crossed the Rockies 
by Tennessee Pass; over the Eastern Utah Desert, with its weird 
mounds; over Salt Lake on the Western Pacific roadbed; 
over the Great Salt Desert; crossed the many low mountain 
ranges and valleys of Nevada, and its barren, alkali and sage¬ 
brush desert; across the Sierras at Summit, California; through 
California’s central valley; crossed the Coast Range at Alta- 
mont; and round the Southern end of San Francisco Bay into 
San Francisco. 

I walked on 140 days. My shortest day’s walk was about 
12 miles; my longest, nearly 50 miles. 

Every night I wrote a letter detailing the incidents of that 
day’s walk, to one with whom I had tramped many summers. 
The following pages contain, not notes expanded after the trip 
was ended, but the letters practically as written. The changes 
made have been the placing of criticisms, in most cases, in a 
different day from that on which I met the persons criticized. 
Other changes would improve the story, but if made, it would 
not be as now, the record of the walk as written day by day. 

“A woman, alone, can safely walk every step of the way 
across the United States.” M. H. W. 


For many of the photographs from which the illustrations 
are made acknowledgment and thanks are due to the U. S. 
Bureau of Mines, to the U. S. Agricultural Department, to the 
Denver & Rio Grande Railroad Company, to the U. S. 
Geological Survey, and to Mr. Campbell of the Geological 
Survey, who was in the Rockies at the time of my walking 
across, and has kindly furnished photographs taken by him at 
that time. 




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE POSTMARK CARRIED ACROSS THE COUNTRY 
“The first of the many postmarks I expect to have” 
CANAL BOAT COMING OUT OF THE LOCK 
“For over a half century, mules have plugged along the path 
I am taking” 

IN MARYLAND 

“The regulation Maryland farming country” 
COAL-DUST EXPLOSION GALLERY—BEFORE THE 
EXPLOSION 

“Outside of the Mine is a long wooden gallery—when it isn’t 
burned up” 

COAL DUST EXPLOSION GALLERY—AFTER THE 
EXPLOSION 

“With the report of a cannon, the shed burst into flames” 
MINE “ENTRY” AND “ROOM” 

“The roof coal requires constant propping up” 

THE “FIRE-BOSS” 

“Every morning the “fire-boss” goes around testing for gas 
in the mine” 

THE TIPPLE 

“Where the coal comes down the tipple into the cars a man 
sits watching” 

THE MINER 
OHIO CORNFIELDS 
“Tall com shuts out the view” 

INDIANA ALFALFA 

“The Indiana farmers are raising considerable alfalfa” 
TYPICAL ARKANSAS FARM 
“Corn and hay lands, pastures, wooded creek and limestone 

hills” 

INDEPENDENCE, COLORADO 
“To the side of the mountain, half a mile below Altman, 
clings Independence” 

MANITOU AND PIKE’S PEAK 
“To Manitou the Indians brought their sick to be cured in 
the healing springs” 

SKYLINE DRIVE 

“Rounding every curve, I felt as if I should walk off the 
ridge” 

THE HANGING BRIDGE 
“I have no fears about crossing the bridge” 

ROYAL GORGE ABOVE CANYON CITY 
“The man wanted a more settled country to walk in” 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


MILES OF THE ROYAL GORGE 
‘‘I can’t describe the Royal Gorge 

NEAR LEADVILLE—THE ONLY SNOW OF THE WALK 
“The snow made the air crisp” 

TENNESSEE PASS POSTMARK 
“The Post Office is in the station, the railroad goes through 
the mountain in a long tunnel. I took a trail that 
crossed the Pass far higher” 

MY FIRST TUNNEL—EAGLE RIVER CANYON 
“Rugged, suggestive of thousands of years of exposure to 
the weather” 

LAVA BEDS—BETWEEN GYPSUM AND SHOSHONE 
“The remains of a volcano of long ago” 

NEAR DE BECQUE 
NEAR GLENWOOD SPRINGS 
“Wondrous rocks—miles of them” 

THE ROAD OUT OF GLENWOOD SPRINGS 
•“I recrossed the river and started down the wide sweep of 
the valley” 

CAMEO 

“The hottest place I’ve seen yet” 

BOOK CLIFFS 

“The views of the cliffs and buttes once mare repay me for 
the whole of the long walk from Washington” 
CASTLE GATE 

“The rocks forming Castle Gate are five hundred feet high” 
THE SALT DESERT 
SALT BEDS NEAR SALDURO 
“Twenty-nine miles to-day all over the salt beds’” 
KNOLLS AND SALT 
“Apparently islands and shimmering sea” 
WENDOVEI^ AND THE DESERT RANGES 
“My second desert is passed” 

PILOT MOUNTAIN, NEVADA 
“The Fujisan of the American Desert” 

The view that to passenger trains, is pointed out as a mirage 
AN UNSETTLED COUNTRY 
“A sage brush-covered, unsettled country” 

NEVADA HAY 

“Nevada raises more than sagebrush and coyotes” 
MISSION SAN JOSE 
SAN FRANCISCO POSTMARK 


AFOOT AND ALONE 

FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. TO SAN FRANCISCO 


WASHINGTON, D. C., TO CABIN JOHN, MARYLAND 

Monday, June 7 

At 6 o’clock this morning, very wide awake, I finished the 
tag-ends of packing, had breakfast, got into my tramping togs, 
and took a car up to the new Washington Post Office—the last 
ride I can have for many months. The Postmaster was out, so 
the “Auditor” wrote and dated and stamped my slip for me, at 
9:85. Then, outside the Post Office, I met my brother and 
some friends; among them Mr. John Nichols, one of the very 
few now living that were in the Ford Theatre the night Lincoln 
was shot, and who, being in his Marines uniform, was called on 
for service. 

I have flattered myself that the thought of the walk has 
not made me nervous; but when in the Postmaster’s office, get¬ 
ting the first of the many signatures that I expect to have, I 
kept dropping things out of my bag; perspiration was dripping 
off my face, like it did the first time I climbed Mt. Washington. 

After saying good-by to my brother and friends, I started 
on my long tramp. In a few minutes, they passed me in auto¬ 
mobiles. Then, for the first time, I felt that I was really headed 
for San Francisco; rather, San Francisco seemed a tiny dot, 
just as it is on the map, while deserts and mountains stretched 
endlessly between me and that dot. I tried to think of San Fran¬ 
cisco the city—the self-satisfied city as I knew it, but the streets 
and buildings always telescoped down to that dot on the map. 

At the Carnegie Library, I rearranged my bags, which had 
been strapped together, so as to carry the little straw bag in 
one hand and the black rubber covered one in the other. Then, 
remembering that I had forgotten to get an Ingersoll, went 
down town and bought one, coming back to Massachusetts Ave. 

Up the Avenue came a collie, his muzzle round his neck, 
one paw caught through the muzzle. He stopped directly in 
front of me, looking at me as only a collie can look. Of course, 
I said, “Poor old chap,” and he hobbled a few steps, to show 



8 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


the dilemma he was in. When I put my hand down, he held 
up his caught paw, and I slipped it back through the muzzle to 
release it. A violent wag of the whole dog in thanks, and he 
trotted off. (I shall take this for an omen that no dogs will 
harm me on the trip. Superstition? Oh, well. In planning 
the walk, my three fears have been: dogs, cattle, coyotes. 
Tramps? I hope not to meet any; shall keep away from the 
railroads, where they do most travel.) 

Where Massachusetts Avenue crosses Dupont Circle, I took 
P Street, following the street car line to Georgetown, where 
I had lunch. There I realized it had been foolish to start the 
walk with a pair of old shoes, as the few miles already walked 
had worn a tiny hole in the sole of one. I got a new pair, 
the most flexible I could find, and have walked in them all day. 
Blisters on my heels, but no worse than usual the first day’s 
long tramp of a vacation. 

At Georgetown, instead of crossing the canal and going up 
the tow-path, as advised to do in the Geological Survey office 
when I got my maps, and as I had intended to do, I went up the 
roadway. The black asphalt was so hot and soft that it col¬ 
lected on the soles of my shoes; walking pushed it up over the 
edges, where it formed ridges that attached straws and such 
like. Every little while, I stopped and scraped the accumulated 
tar and straws off with a sharp stone. The asphalt was intol¬ 
erably hot to my feet, and the sun! it was hotter. There was 
no breeze, and the heat waves from the hot asphalt just seemed 
to sizzle. 

Crossed the Maryland line about half way between George¬ 
town and Cabin John. At the Cabin John Post Office, where 
the postmaster signed my slip at 5:10 p. m., I asked about a 
place to stay to-night. He was much surprised that I meant 
“to stop so early.” He hadn’t been walking over hot asphalt 
for four hours. He said there was no place in the village of 
Cabin John; but directed me to go down to the canal and cross 
the lock to one of the lock-keeper's houses. I crossed the lock 
to the tow-path, which I followed, passing two parties that had 
pulled their boats up and were evidently intending to camp 
between the canal and river. The house to which the postmaster 
had directed me, was locked up; that gate keeper was gone, 
though a woman now lived there; but she was away, and “might, 
or might not, be back to-night.” 

So I meandered on up the tow-path, asking at several locks 
before I found one where the gate-keeper’s wife would keep 
me. Here, after reading my letters from Secretary F. K. Lane 



CANAL BOAT COMING OUT OF THE LOCK 
“For over a half century, mules have plugged along the 
path I am taking” 



IN MARYLAND 

“The regulation Maryland farming country” 













TO SAN FRANCISCO 


9 


and others, she let me stay. The lock-keeper and his 
wife are very nice, and everything is spic-and-span and clean 
here in my room. Not very hungry, but so thirsty. Have been 
drinking quarts of cool spring water. 

Before I came upstairs, several boats came through the 
locks. These—naval barges for Indian Head—are the first 
boats that have passed for some days, on account of the canal 
banks being washed out in places from the heavy rains. Doesn’t 
sound encouraging for a walk up the towpath. The locks here 
are in series,—half a dozen close together. When a boat ap¬ 
proaches the first lock of the series, that lock-keeper pulls a 
wire that rings a bell which signals the other locks in the series, 
and the other lock-keepers pull wires that signal back to him 
that his signal has been heard. 

The canal-boat men have the most strange way of shout¬ 
ing at their mules; nothing living but a canal-boat mule would be 
able to translate their uncouth whoops. The mules are not driven 
at all; they are attached to one end of a long rope cable, the 
other end of the cable being attached to the barge on the canal. 
There are no reins; the guiding is done entirely by the loud 
shoutings of the men. At the locks, the mules are unhitched 
and walk past the lock, where they are again attached to the 
barge by means of the cable. 

The scenery is worth walking up the tow-path to see. The 
canal—the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, on the Maryland side 
of the Potomac—twists back and forth, following the course of 
the river, making little points of land round which the path 
winds. Between the canal and river is well wooded. On the 
right, the Maryland, side of the canal, as well as between canal 
and river, are many camps and tiny summer cottages. It was 
begun in 1828, but was not opened for navagation till 1850, 
from Georgetown to Cumberland, 186 miles by canal. The same 
day ground was broken for the canal, ground was broken also 
for the Baltimore and Ohio railroad. The canal has been 
wrecked several times by freshets. 

So for over half a century mules have plugged along the 
same path I’m taking. No wonder the drivers have, in that 
time, worked out a language that only those mules can under¬ 
stand. 

At the Cabin John Post Office, I dropped a postal to my 
brother, saying I got here “not too tired”; only hope he won’t 
guess how terribly tired “not too tired” is. Have given Cumber¬ 
land, Maryland, as the first address at which letters can reach 


10 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

me, and Pittsburg, Pa., as the next. But I don’t dare to think 
beyond Cumberland. 

Have received the first warnings of trouble to come: that 
the water is probably still well over the tow-path in places 
ahead; and—what to me sounds more serious^that there is a 
long, dark tunnel through which the tow-path runs between 
here and Cumberland. 

When I described my route of to-day, was told I had walked 
about 12^4 miles. 

CABIN JOHN TO GAITHERSBURG, MARYLAND 

Tuesday, June 8. 

Last night, after I had gone upstairs and written my first 
daily letter, I heard the wire rope hit the side of the house and 
the two bells (the signal that a boat is coming up the canal), 
and wondered if there would be many boats go through in the 
night, to waken me. I kept expecting to hear men shouting 
at the mules; after fifteen or twenty minutes was surprised 
that they had gone through without my hearing them. This 
morning Mrs. Speaker told me that no signal had been rung 
and no boat had gone through after I went upstairs! If I’m 
“hearing things” the first night, what will it be before I get 
to San Francisco: I don’t like it. 

When starting out this morning, put on my sweater, to 
satisfy my hostess, who was sure the wind would be cold. It 
was pleasant to begin the day with such a kindly goodby: won¬ 
der if everyone where I stay will be solicitous for my comfort! 
Went up the tow-path to Great Falls, but found it too long. 
The canal follows the windings of the river, and the tow-path of 
course follows the windings of the canal. On the side of the 
towpath away from the water, saw a tiny turtle, that waddled 
away; then another, that pulled in his head and kept still. 

At Great Falls, crossed the lock, intending to go to Potomac 
by road. Took a short cut through some woods, and was glad 
indeed to come out on the roadway again without dogs getting 
after me. On the road to Potomac I saw the first snake of 
my tramp: a little fellow. Perhaps the snakes on this trip will 
be like the ones in New Hampshire the first summer we tramp¬ 
ed the mountains: the first snake we came across, after keep¬ 
ing still a moment, wriggled toward us, and we fled down the 
road, with it in our wake; the second one, we stood still and 
looked at it and it stayed still and looked at us till we made a 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


11 


detour around it; the third, took one look and fled away from 
us. 

At Potomac, I got a paper box from the storekeeper and 
mailed part of my load up to Pittsburg—so tired and hot was I 
and my feet so hot and blistered. From Potomac took the road to 
Rockville, and from there to Gaithersburg. Rockville is the 
mecca for runaway couples from Washington, and for older 
couples who wish to marry without consulting their friends. 
I didn’t tarry: San Francisco, not matrimony, is my goal. 

A little white-tailed rabbit ran across ahead of me on the 
road; looked like a baby Western cotton-tail. Also some long- 
legged brown birds—perhaps “road-runners.” Auto wagons— 
very large ones—go round the country collecting big cans of milk 
from the cross-roads and lane corners where the farmers leave 
them. Fine, large farms through the country. 

Evidently there are no speed laws along the roads here. 
I hear a zip! and the car is by and out of sight: the fastest 
running of cars I ever saw anywhere—and it’s not because I 
am walking the roads, either, that they seem to run so fast. 

A late lunch at 4 p. m., at Rockville, where I bought a pair 
of black sneakers, putting them on at once, even the soft leather 
shoes having blistered my feet so badly. But the sneakers had 
only spring heels of rubber, and to-night my heels are aching 
like they did the first time I climbed mountains in heel-less 
shoes. 

Got into talk with a woman, with something of a school- 
teacherish manner—private school teacherish— who had moved 
to the country from a large city. She confided some of her 
woes to me: among others, that she married “an old man” of 
sixty-six, who dyes his hair; he doesn’t like her to tell people of 
it, but it’s so, and she intends to tell it. 

Gaithersburg post office at 6:45. The postmaster was 
away, and his assistant seemed to have doubts about me. Next 
to the post office was a hotel, and the woman who runs it may 
have been doubtful, too, as she said she didn’t have a room. 
So I have got a room at a private house, where the lady says 
she moved her mother and sister out of the room to let me have 
it. First, she asked me what I wanted to pay; when I said it 
was for her to set the price, she did so, and asked if I would 
pay it. I agreed that it was “all right;” whereupon she said 
that anyone who didn’t want to pay it could find some other 
place; that there were two railroads running out of town, and 
a person could go in either direction if her price didn’t suit. 
Finally, she offered to let me have breakfast for 25 cents. I 


12 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

had expected to find cheap rates in back country places, but 
not so near Washington or any other city. 

Still hot to-night. The roads are very hard travelling: 
bad blisters on toes and heels. Covered about nineteen miles 
by my wanderings to-day, though they tell me that Gaithers¬ 
burg, which is directly north of Cabin John, is only twenty 
miles from Washington by direct road. Must expect to add to 
the length of my roads, having to depend on directions and road 
signs; but the maps that give every road are too bulky to carry; 
it would take so many of them to cover even one State, and I 
have neither wheelbarrow nor hand-cart. Am glad now I 
stopped as soon as I did yesterday; I must not get exhausted 
at the beginning. 

GAITHERSBURG TO URBANA, MARYLAND 

Wednesday, June 9. 

This morning, I was going out to have heels put on my 
sneakers, but the woman at the house where I stayed last night 
asked me not to, because it would put her “back with the work” 
waiting breakfast for me. So I waited round, and had a nine 
o’clock breakfast. Then went over and had leather heels put 
on the sneakers—one hour’s wait while the shoemaker put them 
on. Mailed my straw bag to Cumberland, keeping the black 
rubber bag with necessaries only in it; but kept my raincoat. 
On a short vacation it doesn’t matter so much if one gets wet 
every time it rains; but on a 4000-mile walk one might be re¬ 
duced to pulp. 

The assistant postmaster was very pleasant—evidently con¬ 
cluded, since the town had slept in peace without my creating 
a disturbance, that I was all right; or—woeful thought!—was 
he pleased that I was leaving the town? 

From Gaithersburg to Urbana, via Clarksburg and Hy- 
attstown. At Clarksburg I stopped for lunch; and was minded 
to stop at Hyattstown for the night, but, having made such a 
short distance, didn’t like to. And so, being told there was a 
boarding house at Urbana, the next town, I came on. Crossed 
Parr’s Ridge—a high hill. Made about 20 miles to-day. 

As I came round a curve in a road at the foot of a sloping 
hillside, on the side hill, quite near the road, sat a man on a 
beautiful brown horse. He had ridden out of some story about 
the Old South—I’m sure somewhere I have read an exact des¬ 
cription of him; for, before I got close enough to see his face 
or even to see that he had gray hair, I knew just what he looked 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


13 


like and how he was sitting—smooth-shaven, gray-haired, 
with one knee over the front of the saddle, just as he really was 
—a typical planter of the Old South, giving directions about 
the farm work. But instead of half a hundred black fellows, his 
“hands” were half a dozen white men. The horse stood perfect¬ 
ly still, not even a muscle seeming to move. I wanted to talk 
to the man, but he barely glanced at the woman traveling on 
foot through the dust. This personification of the South re¬ 
minded me that Maryland, “the old line state,” is, after all, 
more Southern than Northern, though Marylanders have been 
annoyed at me for speaking of the State as Southern, since the 
State in general objected to secession in 1861, and only the south 
part favored the Confederacy. But that picture this morning 
was entirely Southern. 

Just before Clarksburg (I think), at the left of the road, 
a tablet marks the site of 

“Dowden’s Ordinary, where General George Edward 
Braddock and Colonel Dunbar’s Division of the Colonial and 
English Army made a second encampment in Maryland, 
April 15-17, 1755.” 

When I got to Urbana, the storeman (saw only one store) 
told me which house to go to. The daughter of the house was 
not inclined to take me in: though she asked me to sit down 
on the porch and rest. She said her father, who was very old, 
did not like strangers around. While we talked, her father 
came up on the porch and sat down. I was on the point of 
asking him about staying, when she spoke of my wanting to. 
He seemed willing; in fact, when she said that I “could get 
halfway to Frederick before dark,” he objected that there was 
no place for me to stay between there and Frederick. So she 
thought “it would be all right,” and let me stay, and gave me 
some supper and a room. I do not blame her for being half 
unwilling to let me stay, for she has felt it necessary to enter¬ 
tain me. 

One good churchwoman whose acquaintance I have made 
on the road, who has been ill a great deal, interspersed stories 
of illness and other family and neighborhood matters, with much 
quotation of her pastor’s opinions on many subjects, during the 
two hours or so I visited with her, while resting. 

One pitiful little tale is of a feeble old man who, when young¬ 
er, owned a large farm; but in his old age was talked into giv¬ 
ing up control of it to a son, and then, because he still wanted 


14 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


to have a say in the management, into moving to a town. His 
comfort then was to toddle out into the farming districts and 
watch the work; finally (fortunately he had a little money) 
he bought a tiny farm on the outskirts and walked out to it 
and worked in the ground himself a little every day; but al¬ 
ways he talked and thought of his own many acres of earlier 
days. Later, I met the old gentleman himself. 

Dogs, or at least a dog, at every house in town, it seems; 
and every dog of them barks when a team approaches the vil¬ 
lage. 

No post office at Urbana, so couldn’t get my slip signed 
for to-day. 

URBANA TO BOONSBORO, MARYLAND 

Thursday , June 10. 

Dogs barked all night. The little Urbana lady where I 
stayed gave me breakfast—of course, when I say “gave” it al¬ 
ways means I paid for it. 

From Urbana I drifted up over a small ridge of hills, and 
later across a little stream—the Monocacy River. Thence into 
the Frederick valley. Going down into the valley one no longer 
sees the “clustered spires of Frederick stand,” though the clust¬ 
ered houses and the outlying farms are, as in the old days, 
“green walled by the hills of Maryland.” On all sides to-day, 
all day long, were valleys and hills surrounding them. Coming 
into Frederick, several battlefields are marked by monuments. 

Four miles from Frederick, at the right of the road, is a 
plain shaft with a round ball top, erected by the Commonwealth 
of Pennsylvania in commemoration of the 67th, 87th, and 138th 
Regiments Pa. Volunteer Infantry, Army of the Potomac, 
“that fought on this battlefield July 9, 1864.”; and of several 
other Pennsylvania corps. 

Before Frederick, I stopped at a little store on a hillside, 
to get hatpins; had lost mine. Got long, murderous-looking 
pins. I’m sure if any tramp or highwayman just glanced at 
those things sticking out beyond my hat, he would flee. At 
Frederick, the very pleasant assistant-postmaster signed my 
slip at 10:30 a. m. A few pleasant words go clear down to my 
very tired soles and help along muchly. 

At Frederick, is a momument to Francis Scott Key (made 
famous by “The Star Spangled Banner”), and, on a bridge, a 
tablet showing where Barbara Fritchie’s house used to stand. 
If those troops were half as foot-tired (and therefore irritable) 
when they saw the flag they were fighting against waving 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


15 


there, as I was when I got there, they deserve medals for march¬ 
ing by and letting it wave over them. Perhaps that waving 
flag was partly responsible for the war indemnity of $200,000 
that was assessed against Frederick by the Confederates. 

Left Frederick (after having lunch), and crossed Braddock 
Mountain,—very steep and horribly hot. From Braddock 
Mountain, looking back, the whole valley in which Frederick 
lies shows well. This hill is part of the Cacottin Mountains— 
a beautiful little range of hills. Then down into a valley and 
up another, longer, mountain—South Mountain, from which a 
battle of the Civil war was named. Over it, through “Turner’s 
Gap,” and down again into a little pocket of a valley in which 
lies Boonsboro. Came into town after the electric lights were 
shining, and found a little hotel. 

Very tired. I am really too heavy for walking; try my best 
to make my rests two miles apart, but cannot do it. Generally, 
it is walk one mile, rest two minutes, walk another mile, another 
two-minute rest; after every fifth mile, I take a fifteen-minute 
rest. 

Dropped a “feeling fine” postal to my brother; and I am, 
only it is so insufferably hot, and my muscles haven’t got used 
to the steady walking. They are so painful and stiff, mornings 
I have to go down stairs sideways; but that stiffness wears off 
after a few hours’ walking each day; while the soles of my 
feet ache night and day. 

About 25 miles to-day. The “Pike” is a delusion and a snare 
for tired feet. Never call it a “road,”—the natives won’t let 
you. 

BOONSBORO TO CLEAR SPRING, MARYLAND 

Friday , June 11. 

Again travelled generally in a north direction, 26 miles 
to-day. Had a good lunch at the hotel at Hagerstown; 
then to the post office at 2.30 p. m. 

A small flock of small sheep feeding by the roadside had 
long tails, nearly touching the ground—no, I wasn’t “seeing 
things.” Before this, I always supposed that Little Bo-Peep’s 
sheep “bringing their tails behind them” was a joke because 
sheep had such short tails; now I know her sheep really had 
long, important tails. 

Much up and down hill to-day, though shorter hills. Very 
hot again. I came down a long hill facing the sunset, the first 
gorgeous sunset of the trip: brilliant gold, clouds below. 


16 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

Crossed Antietam Creek just out of Boonsboro, and a 
larger one, the Conocoheague Creek (Indian word, meaning 
“Indeed a long way”), between Hagerstown and Clear Spring. 

When I was getting very weary, after going up a long, 
winding steep hill (stopped part way up for “pop”), I asked 
the distance to Clear Spring: “five and a half miles.” I was 
heading for Clear Spring, because there is a hotel here. . A 
short distance farther, an elderly man and woman were sitting 
on the porch of a fairly large house (large for the village) : I 
had visions of myself in a comfy little room in their house. 
Asked them where I could stay for the night (explaining what 
I was doing, and that I wanted to pay); man said, “You’re 
asking me too much,” and advised me to go on to Clear Spring, 
which he said was two miles farther. When I said I had just 
been told it was five: “Well, it may be over two miles, but not 
much.” 

I trudged on in the twilight, and it was five miles, for it 
took me nearly two hours to get here. Darkness caught me 
before I got into town. When quite dark, the lights of Clear 
Spring began to twinkle, but, oh, so far ahead! 

My room here has a door out on a kind of second-story 
back porch; gas for light. 

Hope I shall never again have to walk after dark. I hate 
darkness, and can’t afford to use up my nerves shuddering 
along through it: I’ll need all the nerves and nerve I have 
when I get to the mountains and deserts. 

CLEAR SPRING TO HANCOCK, MARYLAND 

Saturday , June 12. 

Thought I had made only about 15 miles to-day, and felt 
I ought to be, and was, ashamed. But it seems I took a long 
way around at times, and have come about 20 miles. From 
Clear Spring, west through Indian Sprng, and northwest to 
Hancock. It took me seven hours. 

Why so slow? Ever since I started the soles of my heels 
have bothered me; that’s what. Perhaps it is dropping down 
from the high-heeled shoes that, like everyone else, I had been 
wearing, to the low heels. Last night, in spite of my weari¬ 
ness from the 26 miles, my heels kept me awake; got up and 
bathed them in witch-hazel at least a dozen times—literally 
a dozen, not so-to-speak. For the first couple of hours this 
morning, they weren’t too bad, but after that,—well, I got to 
the Hancock Post Office at 4 o’clock, and started from Clear 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


17 


Spring before 9 this morning; that shows how my heels felt. 
Both my little toes are enveloped in blisters, on the tips and 
underneath, as well as on top (the nails have disappeared in 
the blisters), but I don’t feel them at all, on account of the 
heels. There! now I’ve made my moan! 

When I got to the top of Fairview Mountain coming from 
Clear Spring (being only a thousand feet high, New Englanders 
would call that mountain a hill)—the road goes very nearly 
over the top—I got a view all round the mountain, except just 
on the right, where the wooded top of the hill I was on hid 
a little of the view. Valleys all round, and to the left and back 
of me misty green mountains. In front, what looked like one 
long hill; first a rolling rise, then a high round top, a long level 
edge, and then sharply cut-off at the right. The noticable 
part was that sharp slope in front at the right. When the 
air cleared, as I travelled along, I saw that what I had taken 
for one mountain was several ranges of hills back of one another. 
As I came down, the view kept getting clearer, till, as I got 
near the valley, lower and nearer hills shut out the mountains. 
Then, again, into the regulation Maryland farming country, 
of long, sloping hills. Western Maryland is certainly a fine 
country, and the country—the farming—part of it well settled. 
To-day, for the first time, I think, I saw, outside of the villages, 
some hills and fields not under cultivation. 

On a piece of town road over which they were hauling 
stone for the state road, the yellow dust was inches deep. Crossed 
to the railroad, but gave up walking on that, on account of 
the intolerable heat, and took to an old mud road; then back 
again to the “pike” where they were building it—save me from 
any more! Even the railroad was better, and I went back to 
that at a point where a small boy was drawing water from a 
pipe at the side for the laborers. The bank between the pike 
and railroad was all of yellow clay, except one narrow dark 
streak that looked like mud. The boy turned, saw me, and ^ 
stepped over to this dark streak and stood watching me. My 
heart warmed to the little fellow, taking the muddy streak and 
leaving the hard clay for me. I stepped on the clay: down 
went one foot into it, then the other; I had to pull and pull to 
get them out. My nice boy had stood still in the only place it 
was possible to cross without sinking down into the wet clay. 

Here at Hancock, (named for the John Hancock) the 
river and canal are both bridged between Maryland and West 
Virginia. 

To-day ends my first week. I had meant to rest every 


18 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

Sunday, but have made so little headway that I shall walk 
to-morrow, so, after all, to-morrow will end my first week. I 
have a large room here, with three big windows; good to have 
electric lights again; and if some one were here to talk to, am 
sure I should not feel my heels so much. 

The beds have been uniformly good this week. The eats 
leave a great vacancy, though I had a fairly good supper to¬ 
night. (I am breaking myself of the habit of saying “dinner” 
for the night meal; that is putting on “side” and calls for em¬ 
phasis on the word “supper” in reply.) I have eaten eggs 
morn and eve till I have to swallow hard whenever I think of 
an egg. Have had ham or bacon offered me in several places, 
but am afraid of thirst. I’ll die if I have to keep on eating 
eggs and jam. 

I have become indifferent to cows feeding on the sides of 
the pike; I walk right along, though must admit I keep a wary 
eye on them. So far (I’m knocking on wood as I write it), 
though two dogs have barked at me, none have flown out at me; 
probably that is because I am keeping to the pike, where there 
is considerable travel. 

Reported “All 0. K.” to brother to-night. That, anyway, 
is the truth; my other postals to him have been more encourag¬ 
ing than truthful. 

HANCOCK TO NERI, MARYLAND 

Sunday, June IS 

Left Hancock about 9:30 a.m.; went through the village, 
and then, on advice of a village girl, turned back to go by the 
towpath. Before crossing the bridge, went into a drug store 
and heard it was sixty miles by towpath to Cumberland, and 
only thirty-nine by pike—the old, original only national pike 
“that was ever constructed across country from Washington to 
St. Louis.” I took the pike. Many warnings of many mountains 
between Hancock and Cumberland: Tonoloway Hill, Sideling 
Hill, Town Hill, Green Ridge, Ragged Mountain, Polish Mount¬ 
ain, Martin’s Mountain, locally grouped as “the Cumberland 
Mountains”. .They are, of course, the outskirts of the Appa¬ 
lachian Range. One, Sideling Hill, is well named: the hill 
itself sidles, and the cultivated fields sidle up it. Coming to¬ 
ward it, one has a birdseye view of a very large farm on the 
hill. To the left is another, peaked, hill, wooded except an 
acute-angled piece that runs to the tip of the hill, the apex of 
the angle at the top. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


19 


On the east side of “Sideling Hill Mountain,” just half 
way between Hagerstown and Cumberland, is standing, in 
practically its original state, the old Mann Inn. This house was 
built and run in staging days, as a tavern, by John H. Mann. 
Just after the Civil War a man named Harvey bought it, 
and his son and daughter (the two being the last of one of the 
old Maryland families) still live there. The rooms, of which 
there are twenty, including the large halls, have been kept in as 
near as possible their original state, the additions having been 
limited to very old furniture and many war relics. The front 
part of the house was built in the beginning of the nineteenth 
century. Clay, Webster, and other prominent men of days when 
stages and private coaches were rapid transit, stopped there. 
In the back room is an immense chimney and fireplace. Back 
of the main house is a small old building, perhaps used as ser¬ 
vants’ quarters in those days. A little way above, on the pike, 
are the ruins of an old gate house. 

At 12 o’clock, just as I got to this old inn, it rained. Miss 
Harvey opened a window, and asked me in; then offered to let 
me have lunch. Before I left, after showing me over the house, 
she took from out one of the ancient cupboards some wine, of¬ 
fering me a glass. The grace with which this kindly act was 
done, the immense room, old woodwork and furniture, wide doors 
and latches of olden time, the room made dusky by the thunder¬ 
storm outside,—gave me the feeling of an interloper from the 
presumptuous present into the past. 

The rain, quite a heavy shower, stopped before I left the 
house at 1:30. The pike goes over Sideling Hill at an ele¬ 
vation of over 1600 feet, ascending over 750 feet in a mile and 
a half, and sidles down the western side and on towards Town 
Hill, another 1600-foot climb. And a very crooked pike it is. 

A little before five o’clock, asked at a house where two 
children were on the porch, if I could have some supper. The 
children went round the house, the little one returning with 
the message, “Grandma says no!” followed by the older girl, 
with, “Grandma says to sit down and she will get you dinner.” 
I asked if I could have some very soon—anything, not to cook 
dinner for me. “Yes;” but no dinner appeared. An old lady 
came out and dozed on the porch. 

About half past six an auto with four men drove up and 
asked for dinner, and the old lady bestirred herself and put 
food on the table, and, at my request, permitted me to eat at 
the same time. I ate hurriedly, and a little before seven started 
for Neri Post Office, where, I had been told, Neri Ruby, the 


20 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

Postmaster, let people stay over night at his house. Owing 
to my late start after dinner, it was dark before I had gone far. 
Rain. Thunder. Lightning. Wretched roads (both before and 
after my dinner stop), on which I sank in clay. 

Crossed a hollow, and started up Town Hill, just as it got 
dusky. At the foot, camps of the foreign road workers; some 
of them just getting over Saturday night, yelling and singing 
songs. Before I passed, I noted that some of the men, though 
foreign, were apparently sober. The shacks were on both sides 
of the road; a dog ran out barking from one, but a man called 
him back. As I walked along, it was hard not to turn my head 
to look, especially after I got past and started up the first rise 
of the hill and the singing sounded as if some of them were 
coming up the hill behind me. But I believe if you don't look 
at a drunk man he is not apt to bother you, so long as he isn’t 
in your way or you in his. 

Went over the top of this mountain (something over thir¬ 
teen hundred feet elevation) just as it got dark. Going down 
the west side, the trees were lower and thicker, and closed in 
close to the roadway (no fence). Up and down another small 
mountain; dark, except for lightning flashes. Steps were 
coming toward me in the dark road; a flash of lightning showed 
two men, and of course showed me to them. They stopped when 
close: knew they had stopped, by lack of footsteps, though I 
couldn’t see them. “Good evening”—a voice came out of the 
darkness. 

I stopped, too, and asked them for Mr Ruby’s house. They 
had just been to his store, they said, and he and his wife were 
away to a picnic and might not get back till Monday morning. 
(Why, on Sunday, in refering to the next morning, do we say, 
“Monday morning,” while on the other six days we speak of 
“to-morrow morning?”) 

They might as well have said “next year”; my heart would¬ 
n’t have sunk any lower. They directed me to another house, 
where people stayed over night sometimes. 

Came on down here. In the front room, some people were 
singing hymns. When I asked for a room, the man sitting on 
the porch went in and called his wife. She and several other 
women came out, but she said she was ill and couldn’t let any¬ 
one stay. Showed her my letters: the women trooped into the 
house to read them, while I sat down on the porch. She came 
back, and sat and talked and talked. Every minute seemed an 
hour, I was so tired: Oh! why didn’t she say either she would 
let me stay or she wouldn’t, so I could go on, to find another 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


21 


house in the latter case, though no light of any other house was 
in sight. Finally: 

“Did you mean to pay?” 

On my emphatic “Yes!” she took me upstairs to a room; 
later coming up to explain that she had been “taken in” by 
women who stayed over night and then didn’t pay, and that was 
why she wouldn’t say I could stay till she had found out if I 
meant to pay. Told me tales of women wanting to stay over 
night—some without money to pay. Is Money to pay the nec¬ 
essary qualification to insure welcome, and the dividing line 
between respectability and an outcast? Had I not had money 
to pay, would I at this moment be walking the muddy road in 
the darkness and heavy rain,—it is now raining heavily? Per¬ 
haps I am unfair, but my nerves are tense yet from that wait 
on the porch. 

About 25 miles to-day. 

Met a small flock of sheep on the pike; and later saw some 
sheep that had been sheared— the first time I ever saw sheep 
without their wool. 

Talked shoes with one of the road engineers, or super¬ 
intendents. When he left college and got his job, he got the 
heavy soled high laced boots he associated with road work. 
Found he couldn’t stand the weight of them for walking round. 
Then went into a make of shoe very popular with many. He 
was soon “laid up” with his feet, and a substitute had to come 
up on his job. The doctor said it was falling arches, from walk¬ 
ing day after day with heels too low. When he got about again, 
he got a light-weight shoe, with heels of the regulation height, 
and is rapidly getting over his foot troubles. This is almost 
the first corroboration I ever had of my claim that for walking 
a light-weight shoe with a heel is the thing—not a heavy tramp¬ 
ing shoe. 

On the side of the road in one place to-day sat a tall, thin 
mountaineer, with long white chin beard and mustache, with 
his gun and bag,—a long gun, to match the man’s unusual 
length. He had come right out of the Cumberland mountains 
and one of John Fox’s stories. Said he had walked thirty-five 
miles to-day and when reaching the main road had asked two 
young men in a two-seated automobile to give him a ride, and 
they refused. While we talked,—he mixed in swears naturally 
and unprofanely,—another two seated car, with a man and 
woman in it, came along and he asked them for a ride and 


22 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

climbed in. So I never will know which of the mountains he 
came down from, nor when or where John Fox met him! 

NERI TO CUMBERLAND, MARYLAND 

Monday, June 1U* 

Started for Cumberland at 7:15 a.m. Across a long valley, 
and up over another mountain,—Polish Mountain (pronounced 
like a fishing pole, not like shoe polish—I seem to be constantly 
mispronouncing names), nearly 1400 feet high. At the top of 
the mountain, a country road crosses the pike: wonderful 
view right below,—a little valley shut in by hills. Green wood¬ 
ed hills on right and left; cultivated fields stretching to the top 
of hills in front; a farm on the low hillsides in the center of the 
valley. Came over Martin’s Mountain (over 1700 feet eleva¬ 
tion)—very long on both sides. 

Between these two mountains, I reported at Flintstone, 
Maryland, Post Office at 9:45 a.m. It is a very old town, in 
“Warrior Gap,” Stopped at another old inn on the pike for 
lunch, but the present occupants didn’t appreciate the building. 
This one is of brick, with a porch across the front. Large 
rooms and fireplaces, and two doors side by side in the front; 
one used to lead into the taproom of the tavern, the other into 
the general room. 

At one house where I stopped to chat to-day, I was told 
stories of their various dogs that had been killed by automobiles; 
they said the dogs wouldn’t get used to the automobiles, and so 
of course each in turn was finally killed or died as the result 
of being run over. Rather seemed to enjoy telling of it. One 
tale they enjoyed telling was that of a much-disliked neigh¬ 
bor’s car being overturned by a dog running in front of it, 
the occupants, however, being merely bruised. 

At one house, where the mother had very recently died, the 
women of the family were very giggly. Their cheerfulness and 
foolishness was almost grotesque, in a house where the mother 
had died such a short time ago. However, I suppose it was 
better than the usual gloom that people feel they must act out. 

On top of the last hill before Cumberland—the hill that 
the pike runs over into the city—I had a talk with a man who 
came down hill from a little shanty I passed, after I had sat 
down to rest at the side of the road on the grass. The man had 
tramped a lot; had stories to tell of people who had stopped at 
his shanty on their tramps. From his talk, I gather that he 
came walking along, saw the empty shanty, appropriated it, 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


23 


and had lived there ever since, doing odd jobs enough to keep 
him in eatables. After all, what more does anyone need! One 
winter, a man and woman, travelling on foot in the cold, came 
to his place, and stayed—and stayed! The woman cooked, the 
man did nothing. At last, provisions running low, he had to 
tell them his grub was about out and asked them to move on. 
Said he was glad to have some one cook, and would have let 
them stay indefinitely if the man had made any attempt to 
help out on food. 

Got to the Cumberland Post Office at 5:25 p.m.; a little mail. 
About 22 miles to-day. Do not like the place I am at here, 
though it was recommended to me. 

The Cumberland Postmaster does much tramping of the 
hills, as does his son; says he himself has the “moccasin walk,” 
like the Indians. He was much interested in my proposed 
tramp, and asked if I expected to get to San Francisco. Of 
course I told him it hadn’t occured to me that I wouldn’t; 
whereupon he said: 

“I am sure you will. Keep on.” 

Almost everyone else has shown clearly that they thought 
it was a fool undertaking and that I wouldn’t make it. How¬ 
ever, as I get farther along, I may get more encouragement. 

Beautiful country all through. Rich looking farms, and 
neat homes. 

CUMBERLAND TO GRANTSVILLE, MARYLAND 

Tuesday , June 15. 

Last night, I found, on looking close, that both the beds 
in the room I had, had been slept in since the linen had been 
changed. Went down stairs and asked for clean sheets and, 
pillowcases, and got them—for one bed, which was all I needed. 
The woman looked blank when I asked for “bed linen”— 
whether because the words were unfamiliar, or because she 
couldn’t imagine such audacity, I don’t know. Left in my room 
the thin shoes I had bought in Georgetown. They don’t feel 
right; and I want to lighten my bag as much as possible—it 
seems to grow heavier, the lighter it gets. 

As I wandered down the street in Cumberland, met the 
Postmaster, and went into the Post Office again, getting from 
him various directions about my road out of the city. 

Left Cumberland at 8:45, out through “The Narrows”—the 
passageway between the hills where the railroad, river, and 
road leave the city. 


24 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


The river is yellow ochre, as are the rocks over which it 
runs (or has run at higher water), as well as the branches of 
the bushes at the side that are touched by the water. This 
yellow is from the sulphur in the water—the river comes down 
from the regions of suilphur mines in the mountains. 

On, 12 miles to Frostburg, one of the old towns of Mary¬ 
land, which I reached at 1:15. Had a lunch there; and left at 
3:10, over long hills to Grantsville—14'miles from Frostburg: 
26 miles to-day. Got here at 9 p.m., too late to go to the Post 
Office. 

Another beautiful sunset—banked clouds, red sky back of 
them. 

Grantsville is at the top of a long, winding hill. It was 
dark before I got to the hill, and it seemed dreadfully long, 
as I tried to hurry up it, out of breath. Near the foot I 
passed several girls and boys; but coming up the steeper part, 
I was alone in the dark, except when an automobile passed— 
and there were dark trees at the side of the road. 

At the top of the hill, just as I came into what seemed 
the outskirts of the village, and the lighted road ahead looked so 
long (I could see the electric lights probably an eighth of a 
mile, or less), I asked where the hotel was. Joy! it was just 
across the road from where I was, with my aching soles (and 
soul). 

Am at “Dorsey’s ”—another of the original National Pike 
inns. Have an immense big room, old fashioned wood work, 
and an odd big flat bolt on the door. A pleasant woman runs it, 
who brought me a big pitcher of drinking water. 

Had several offers to ride in autos to-day. A farmer’s 
boy (about eighteen years of age), walked his team beside me 
for several miles, after I had refused to ride. A bright boy, 
very talkative. Said: 

“I think you are too old to take a long walk like that.” 

On my asking how old I was: 

“About as old as my mother, and she couldn’t take a long 
walk.” 

He had very emphatic opinions about the Mexican situation 
and the possibility of war with Mexico. Said it was the old 
men, who wouldn’t be called out except in the very last in¬ 
stance, who were talking about Mexico having insulted the 
dignity of this country: that he and every other young fellow 
he knew, wanted to keep out of war with Mexico, and thought 
President Wilson was doing the right thing; said he didn’t 
know anyone that would be likely to be one of the ones to go 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


25 


to war, if it came, that didn’t think Wilson was right. Food for 
thought. 

Western Maryland is a fine country. Very hilly, of course, 
—they are called mountains, but there are farms to the very 
tops. 

An automobile to-day kept passing and repassing me, stop¬ 
ping at houses, and turning down side streets. A man and 
woman in it, with a chauffeur or messenger in the back seat, 
to jump out and run into the houses where they stopped. They 
weren’t peddling anything, so I think they must have been look¬ 
ing for old furniture or china. The day was so hot, and that car 
flying back and forth making dust got on my nerves, though 
it took me several miles to realize it. After a time I saw a 
tramp ahead of me( he had the regulation tramp’s stick), and 
I kept him ahead as long as I could; but he walked so slow I 
finally had to pass him, just as we were starting up a long hill. 
He looked round, and began talking, and I saw he had been 
drinking. As I passed, he was swearing about the automobile, 
saying what he would do to that man if he had him out on the 
Toad. It sounded pretty fierce; but after all I suppose he was 
only expressing in drunken language the same kind of annoy¬ 
ance that I had been feeling at the car. After passing him, at 
the top of the hill I asked a man I met to stop the tramp and 
talk for a while, so I could get a long way ahead. 

Is it possible to get used to tramps? I surely am glad I 
decided to keep away from the railroads, where the genus tramp 
most do congregate. 

GRANTSVILLE, MARYLAND, TO NEAR FARMINGTON, 
PENNSYLVANIA 

Wednesday , June 16. 

Got to Grantsville Post Office at 7:45 this morning, and to 
within two miles of Farmington to-night; between 25 and 26 
miles to-day. 

Came by way of Peterborough (where the Post Office is 
named Addison). The old original milestones are along the 
pike in many places,—old gray stones that gave me the feeling 
of walking along an old, old road. Peterborough is the pret¬ 
tiest town I have seen,—a wee, very old town. Small, neat 
houses with roomy porches having chairs and tables and swing¬ 
ing chairs and mats (I can’t call them “rugs” in such a dear 
little old town). 

At the entrance of the town, part way down the hill, is 


26 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


an old, round-towered stone toll-house, very old. In place of 
one of the ‘windows in the tower end (the street side) is an old 
board showing toll rates: so much for a “score of sheep”, etc., 
the letters being cut into the wood. Tried to get information 
about it, but couldn’t find “the Squire,” “who knows about it.” 
Others “think” it was built about 1820, by the Government; 
and Colonel Deiafield had charge of collecting the tolls. The 
toll gate was taken down twenty years ago. One man I asked 
felt quite keenly that I should ask for “the Squire” to tell me 
about the toll-house; said he could tell me all the Squire could,— 
but I didn’t find out what I wanted to learn about it. The town 
was named for Peter Augustine—but nobody would (or perhaps 
could) tell me who Peter Augustine was. 

Before reaching Peterborough, I crossed the Maryland- 
Pennsylvania State Line, and had dinner at State-Line Hotel,— 
a farmhouse that used to be one of the inns on the pike. Got; 
there at 11:30, and waited till one o’clock for dinner. 

At one house to-day, where the woman talked to me, there 
were two dogs—mixtures. The woman of the house was alone; 
after telling me how harmless the dogs were (one of them had 
barked at me), she evidently changed her mind in regard to me, 
and said that one of them, though seeming so quiet, “would tear 
anyone to pieces” that touched her. Did she think I was a 
highwayman in disguise, with designs on the place? 

In talking of the mountains this side of Hancock, some one 
to-day gave me their names in this order,—Sideling Hill, Town 
Hill, Green Ridge, Polish Mountain, and Martin’s Mountain. 

Just over the Pennsylvania State Line is a tablet telling 
that that is the “Washington-Braddock Road,” and was origin¬ 
ally an Indian path known as Nemacolin’s Trail,—Nemacolin 
being the name of the Delaware Indian who acted as guide for 
the Ohio Company in the Colonial days. Washington followed 
that route on his mission of 1753, and went over it again on his 
military expedition of r 1754. The next year, General Braddock, 
in his campaign against Fort Duquesne, followed the same route. 
In crossing the Maryland-Pennsylvania line, the road also 
crosses the Mason and Dixon line, and is “crossed by the Cum¬ 
berland or national road.” So now I am no longer in the South, 
but have come “up No’th.” 

Came from Peterborough to Smithfield (where the Post 
Office is Somerfield), getting to Smithfield at 4 p.m. I have 
got so used to all the country people that 1 meet speaking, that 
I forgot I was in a “town,” and quite surprised a youth by say- 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


27 


ing “How-de” to him as I came over the bridge out of Smith- 
field. 

After crossing the bridge out of Smithfield, there was 
a winding piece of road, and then long hills, one after another. 
One they told me was a mile and a half from foot to top, and it 
was particularly bad; I had to stop a number of times to rest. 
A boy about fifteen years old, with a team, overtook me, and, 
after offering me a ride, kept alongside for perhaps four miles. 
At first there were several teams, going home from town: 
but they all went faster than this one and I did. 

The team stopped to rest about as often as I did, and the 
boy said it was the hardest day on the horses he had seen this 
summer; it certainly was the hardest on me. His horses were 
dripping with sweat, the water dropping off on the ground when 
they stopped to rest. I felt like they looked. When 1 suggest¬ 
ed his horses were about as tired as I was, he said the matter 
was they had “gone past their feeding time”; that it made 
horses weak to go past their feeding time. Think I’ve learned 
something: I, too, had gone past my “feeding time”, and may¬ 
be that is why I was so weak. 

The Somerfield Postmaster, a very pleasant, capable-ap¬ 
pearing young man, told me of a house on the Farmington 
road where I could stay; he said they always kept “men who 
went along the pike.” On my suggestion that they might 
let strange men stay and not a strange woman, he said to tell 
Mrs. Blank that he had told me to tell her he sent me there. It 
was after dark when I got to Mrs. Blank’s, and very weary I 
was. Mrs. Blank said: 

“No!” 

I asked if I might sit down on the porch for a few minutes, 
sitting down as I asked. To say she glared 'at me is literal 
truth. She told me to go on to Farmington, a couple of miles 
down the road, where there was an inn to stay. Later in the 
evening, talking to others, I found that everyone around knew 
there was no hotel in Farmington, as it was two years since 
the inn had let anyone stay: that it had been sold several 
years before and was used as a private residence. 

Mrs. Blank said she couldn’t let me stay, because she “had 
company” to-night; one of the women said, “But we are going 
home by ten o'clock, you know, Mrs. Blank,”—which Mrs. Blank 
ignored. This excuse of “company” was after I had said, 
when I realized she would not let me stay, that it didn't look 
well for a place that kept any strange man that asked, to refuse 
to let a woman stay, who had money to pay and good letters 


28 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


of introduction showing her purpose in walking, and to send 
her out in the dark along a lonely road where there was no 
hotel or place to stay. She: 

“I can’t keep everyone that comes along the pike.” 

I came on down the road in the dark, passing a church 
where there was some kind of a meeting, and, after asking at 
several places, was told to come on here, where I am. I found 
one of the daughters at home, holding her baby, and a boy 
about thirteen, holding another sister’s child, the rest of the 
family being at the church I had passed, where there was a 
suffrage meeting. The daughter said she didn’t know what 
room her mother would put me in, so couldn’t let me go to bed, 
and as her baby was crying she couldn’t put her down to get 
me any supper. My feet hurt so—the soles—and made me so 
nervous I could hardly sit still, and I certainly was too tired to 
walk round. 

About eleven o’clock the rest of the family came home, and, 
after the usual chatting at the gate, and good-byes, they came 
in, found poor tired me, and gave me a much appreciated sup¬ 
per of bread and milk and jelly. When I finished eating, 
found they had been waiting for me so the father could hold 
family prayers before they went upstairs. 

He did not pray for “the stranger within his gates,” as I 
expected him to. 

They were going to put me in a room with two beds, in the 
one of which slept the daughter and her baby; but I asked if 
I could not sleep downstairs on the lounge. So with a blue 
spread and a comforter, and a chair-cushion for a pillow, I feel 
I am in luck not to have had to walk miles farther for a place 
to stay. 

Heard a story about a man in Farmington that refused 
shelter to a woman and baby, when the automobile they were 
in broke down in front of his house, and they had to stay in the 
car all night. 

About 26 miles to-day. 

FARMINGTON TO CONNELLSVILLE, PENNSYLVANIA 

Thursday , June 17. 

Had a horrid wakeful night. When I asked how much I 
owed, the woman said she charged fifty cents if people wanted 
to pay; if they didn’t want to, it was all right. Well, anyway, 
even if they did have family prayers and didn’t pray for “the 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


29 


stranger”, they live up to their religion if they take in penni¬ 
less waifs. 

Just before getting to Farmington, asked a man about 
Fort Necessity, and he took me over to it. His uncle owns 
the land. The tablet marking the Fort has been mended where 
it was broken by cattle pastured in the field rubbing against 
it. In the rock at the base, initials have been cut! Why do 
boys, and sometimes men, wish to advertise their vandalism 
that way! The tablet reads: 

“Fort Necessity, where Lieutenant Colonel George 
Washington in command of four hundred Provincial 
Troops, after an engagement of nine hours capitulated to 
M. Coulon de Villiers in command of nine hundred French 
regulars and their Indian allies, July 4th, 1754. Colonel 
Washington lost 30 men killed, 42 wounded. Captain Mac- 
kay’s loss was never reported. The French had two men 
killed and seventy wounded, two whereof were Indians.” 

So July 4th was not always a lucky day for America. 

The site of the fort is surrounded by hills. Many bullets 
and Indian arrowheads have been found in the fort and on one 
of the slopes near it. On the slope that has been decided 
on as the French and Indian camp, nothing of the kind has 
been found. It is on the opposite side of the Fort, on a simi¬ 
lar slope, that much has been found, which causes some of the 
people thereabouts to think a mistake has been made in de¬ 
ciding where the French Camp was located. The outlines of 
the fort are plain, one corner running into a brook,—a reason 
for making a fort in a spot that was commanded on all sides 
by hills: they had to make a stand where there was water. 

On the hillside back of the fort, is a line that is pointed 
out as the old Indian trail followed by Braddock. 

In a glass case at the house on the farm are, among other 
things, a few of the relics found in the fort. The ancester 
of the present owner, who lived there, used to keep the relics 
in a box and let anyone who wished pick them over; naturally 
many disappeared. 

A short distance from Fort Necessity is the Braddock 
Monument, on a little rise of ground, with the inscription: 

“Here lieth the remains of Major General Edward 
Braddock, who in command of the 44th and 48th Regi¬ 
ments of English regulars was mortally wounded in an en- 


SO AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

gagement with the French and Indians under the command 
of Captain M. deBeaujeu at the battle of the Monongahela 
within ten miles of Fort DuQuesne, now Pittsburgh, July 9, 
1755. He was borne back with the retreating army to the 
Old Orchard Camp, about one fourth of mile west of this 
park, where he died July 13, 1755. Lieutenant-Colonel 
George Wshington read the burial service at the grave.” 

On another side of the monument is a tablet reading: 

“This bronze tablet was erected and dedicated to the 
memory of Major General Edward Braddock by the Offi¬ 
cers of his old regiment The Coldstream Guards of Eng¬ 
land, October 15, 1913.” 

A very short distance from the Monument, in a hollow, 
is a tablet, reading: 

“This tablet marks the spot where Major General 
Braddock was buried, July 14th, 1755. His remains were 
removed in 1804 to the site of the present monument.” 

The story goes that after burying Braddock, horses were 
driven back and forth over his grave to obliterate all signs of 
it, so the enemy should not know anyone was buried there, 
and could not discover that General Braddock had died. At 
present there seems to be an attempt to obliterate it with brok¬ 
en bottles, old bagging, etc. 

In talking to a man to-day, I mentioned the story of a 
man in Farmington having refused a woman and baby shelter, 
and asked if it could be true. He sidestepped it. A few 
minutes later, a man passing spoke to him, and he remarked, 
as the man went on, “That's the man you were just asking 
about,”—which showed he knew the story and who it was told 
about. The man’s appearance suggested anything but the 
churl that would refuse shelter to anyone. 

On my way through Farmington, the lady now living at 
the former inn came out and talked to me. 

I passed Stone House—a large, modern-looking house— 
and on up to Summit,—up a very long hill. Part way up it, 
ahead of me I saw a horse and buggy at the side of the road, 
and a man wildly jumping around, trying to catch something 
in a net. I looked elsewhere for a time, walking up the hill; 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


31 


and when I got near, the butterfly hunter had changed into 
a prosaic telephone lineman. 

At Summit, turned to the right, and went up more hill; 
then down hill, gradual at first, but soon steep and many 
twists in the road. Part way down was Jumenville, a place 
that seems to have once been a busy factory town. Now the 
big buildings are falling to ruin and seem empty; and even 
the church, overgrown with vines, has a broken pane of glass 
in one of the front windows. Down more and steeper hill— 
in fact, it is all steep and winding down hill to Coolspring. 
Bridgewater Hill in New Hampshire has nothing on it for 
steepness or length. 

Going down towards Jumenville from Summit, I met a 
horse and wagon, driven by a very much country woman with 
several small children piled on to the seat beside her and on her 
lap. Each rein was held by a different child, which classi¬ 
fies the outfit. Stretched out on bedding and rubbish in the 
back of the team was a youth, who held his mouth open and 
scratched his lip all the time the woman was talking to me—a 
foolish son, I supposed. I asked her for Coolspring. She pulled 
up the horse, and told me to keep on, “straight ahead,” that 
I would come to Jumenville before Coolspring. As the road 
turned every twenty-five feet, “straight ahead” was very des¬ 
criptive. She looked me over, and— 

“Do you live back in the mountains?” 

“N-o-o-o” (I said it slowly, and she evidently, to judge by 
the rest of her talk, thought I was ashamed of it, and was 
fibbing.) 

As I started on down the hill, the young man in the back 
of the team shut his mouth, which had been wide open all this 
while, and in perfectly good English (not the English of the 
woman) volunteered the information that I was not to keep 
straight ahead on the road; that when the road went “this way” 
(he illustrating with his hands), I was to turn off “this way” 
(again illustrating.) By that turn I saved some distance; 
but I think the hill the straight (!) road led to,—a very round, 
very green hill,—had a monument of some kind on it. 

Coolspring takes its name from springs. The water is 
dammed in a number of places in the stream. After passing 
the springs, rested in the shade. Got lunch at a little store— 
a can of tomatoes, a box of crackers, two bottles of pop, and a 
lemon. Then trudged on toward Connellsville. 

For some time, after heading for Connellsville, I didn’t 
recognize the queer smell as coke smoke. Took a cross-cut to 


32 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


Lamont. All the villages along here lie in the hollows, and the 
heat from the coke ovens, on a hot day like this, is intense. 
In Lamont the ovens are on higher ground than the houses in 
the town. Lamont has square concrete gutters at the sides of 
the streets, down which the drainage runs, and in which the 
barefoot boys wade! And oh, the smell, at the corners of the 
streets, where the outhouses are built close to these drains. 

A path went over a hill to the left from Lamont, and a 
woman told me it went out to the “pike”. So I crossed to the 
path through the yard of a house where a barefoot woman 
came out to show me how to get through the gate. At this 
house a dog barked at me, and I asked a little girl if he wast 
cross. Just as she said doubtfully, “I don’t think he will hurt 
you—I don’t know,” I saw that he was chained and was wag¬ 
ging his tail. I, too, didn’t think he would hurt me, and went 
through the yard as the woman had directed. 

Came over the hill to Connellsville Pike, and on to Connells- 
ville, a city of eight or ten thousand, on the Yougheogheny 
River, in one of the two greatest coal districts of the world. 
Millions of tons of coke are shipped from here every year. 
I didn’t try to go to the Post Office, as it was after 6 p.m. 
when I got here, after my 28 miles of wandering. 

On a long hill coming down to the river that runs through 
the city, a man who overtook me and asked me to ride, recom¬ 
mended two hotels; but they were on the first side of the river, 
and I didn’t like the looks of the part of the town they were in, 
though they are probably all right. I crossed the river and the 
railroad, and came on till I saw this hotel, where, although after 
supper time, they kept the dining room open for me to 
have supper; colored waiters, good service. 

West (left) shoulder is very sunburned; perhaps it has 
been a little toward the south of west to-day, and more south 
other days. 

This is Battle of Bunker Hill day; holiday in Boston. 

CONNELLSVILLE TO MOUNT PLEASANT, 
PENNSYLVANIA 


Friday , June 18. 1 

The first thing after breakfast this morning, was to get 
a new pair of sneakers. The shoe man persuaded me to take 
a pair of soft shoes with heavy rubber and fibre soles. He 
took them out and had heels put on; and such heels! Only the 
very back edge touched the floor. He took them back again 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


33 


to be made right; and by the time I got away from Connells^ 
ville it was between 12 and 1 o’clock. The shoeman could¬ 
n’t give me directions for getting to Pittsburg, but he called 
in a doctor that he said knew the roads, and the doctor said 
that going by way of Mount Pleasant was the shortest route. 

Meantime I went to the Post Office (at 9:45), and then to 
a store across the street to buy a pencil, where I was greeted by: 

“Are you with the show?” 

The Wild West show was in town, and later I saw the 
parade go by. If I look like the Wild West show now, what will 
I look like when I get to California? 

Finally I did get started. On a hill, at a corner, stopped 
to try to get my hat fixed on tight: it was blowing quite hard. 
A woman at the house on the corner asked me, first to come up 
on the piazza to fix my hatpins in, and then to come into the 
house to fix my hair so it would hold the pins: which I did. 
She and her husband had read in the Pittsburg Gazette about 
my walk, in one of the Frederic Haskins articles. She called 
her husband in, and I had a pleasant chat with them. At first 
I was sure it must have been some one else she read about, but 
she remembered the name. 

Then I went on, down cinder and black ash roads, and cross¬ 
ed another yellow stream (sulphur from the mountains again), 
which farther on was almost rust color. 

Got to Mount Pleasant late in the afternoon. Here I 
bought black sneakers, and had heels put on them at a shoe¬ 
maker’s, The shoes I bought in Connellsville were simply 
awful, they were so heavy; and having an ankle strap, 
and nothing to keep my feet from slipping forward in going 
down the steep hills,—well, it was very painful for my toes! 

Said the shoemaker: 

“Are you with the show.” 

“One of the banjo players,” said a man on the sidewalk 
to another man as I passed. Creatore’s band is in town, 
but evidently there must be other musicians, perhaps with the 
“Wild West” that came up from Connellsville. I’m sure I can’t 
look like one of Creatore’s Band, however much I may suggest 
one of a Wild West show. 

After supper, went to the Post Office, where the postmaster 
signed at 7 p.m., though his dating stamp had been changed 
ready for the morning. 

Mount Pleasant is a pleasant town on a hill, with brick 
paved streets. It seems as if every town was either up on top 
of a hill, or was prefaced by a long, steep hill. Girl waiters 


34 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

in the hotel here, and a pleasant proprietor (or clerk). I had 
meant to go on farther, but it was about 6 o’clock when I got 
here after perhaps 16 miles, and the hotel seemed comfy, so I 
gave up the idea of going any farther until to-morrow. I sup¬ 
pose I am loitering badly, but don’t want my feet to get serious¬ 
ly wrong so early in the tramp. They still wake me up at 
night—the soles aching like a toothache. 

MOUNT PLEASANT TO IRWIN, PENNSYLVANIA 

Saturday , June 19, 

There was no one but a colored man in the hotel office 
this morning; was uncertain about paying him, but did so. 

Left Mount Pleasant in a hard rain, my raincoat on, first 
going to the Post Office to get a letter I had left there last night. 

Out of town down a slippery, slizzery lane,—the shortest 
way out, I was told. After many turns got near Youngwood. 
Rain had stopped—rained only about two hours. A surveyor 
working on the road, told me to go up the car track to Young- 
wood (ten and a half miles from Mount Pleasant), where I 
took a road supposed to go to Arona. 

Near Middletown, about noon, a letter carrier that I met 
said “anybody in Middletown” would let me have dinner. Soon 
after, at a pleasant little house, asked a woman to sell me a 
dinner, and got it. Had a long talk with her and her husband 
She said her husband had told her to ask me if I would like 
to stay all night; but it was too early in the day to stop. 

Little hills and turns in the roads. Took the road towards 
Arona, passing a large old sign, “Pittsburgh.” Asked at a 
house for Irwin, and was directed: 

“Go up a lane, through the fields, along a road, cross a 
cornfield, and come out by a big barn.” 

Followed directions as well as I could. On the road after 
crossing the fields, asked a man in a team. 

“Go up the road, through some bars, over a hill, cross a 
cornfield, and come out by a big red barn,” the bars and the 
hill being added to the former directions, it appearing that I 
had already “gone up the lane and through the fields.” 

In one of the fields on the side of “the hill”, was a little 
tunnel entrance and a small car there. Looked like a little 
private coal mine. I found “the cornfield”, and came out by 
“the big red barn,” and so on to Irwin (probably nine miles). 

I had loafed at the house where I got dinner till almost 
4 o’clock; got here to Irwin just in time for supper at the hotel. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


35 


Went to the Post Office at 7:30 p.m. About 26 miles to-day. 
Less tired than any day so far. 

On leaving Mount Pleasant, saw more yellow ochre rivers, 
and, later, deep orange chrome water in the streams. Near 
Youngwood, even the rain water in the gutters was yellow. 

A long, long road down hill into Irwin. These national 
and state “pikes” have no sidewalks or paths at the side where 
one can walk. A “smart” young man, with a heavy two-horse 
team, drove close against me coming down the hill, crowding 
me off the roadway; he had the whole street to drive on, too. 
Looked back and laughed (another young fellow in the wagon 
with him.) 

IRWIN TO PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA 

Sunday, June 20. 

Left Irwin this morning, for the last 19 Vz miles to Pitts¬ 
burg. The first thing out of Irwin was a long up-hill. Sev¬ 
eral autos, apparently local cars, driven by young men, did 
just as the team did last night,—crowded their cars up close 
to me, making me step off the walkable road, and then looked 
back and laughed. There must be a Discourtesy Club around 
there. 

After a while, I came to East McKeesport, and stopped at 
a hotel for dinner. Loafed there an hour or two, and went on 
toward Turtle Creek. 

On leaving East McKeesport, a totally new style of country 
came into view. Toward the right I looked down into Wilmer- 
ding, where the Westinghouse airbrake factories are. (My in¬ 
formant seemed a little uncertain about both the name of the 
town and the factories.) A little farther away, and a little 
higher, but still in another valley, was another little manu¬ 
facturing town. And so in every direction—hills and valleys, 
every hill with a little village on the side or top, and in everv 
valley a little brown manufacturing town,—brown houses, 
brown factories, tall chimneys, clouds of gray-brown smoke,— 
all huddled together. The hills are steep and the valleys small: 
from any hilltop one can see many villages and manufacturing 
towns. I shall never again hear of a “manufacturing town” 
without seeing it as brown. Even houses originally gray or 
some other color have taken on the uniform brown tone. And 
how hot the towns look! I was surprised to see how thickly 
settled the whole of this corner of Pennsylvania is. 

I came to one hilltop from where, ahead and in the valley 


36 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

below, was Turtle Creek,—quite a town,— and beyond it, the 
pikes went up and over, and up and over, the sides and tops ot 

When after a long down hill I got into Turtle Creek, people 
insisted that to get to Pittsburg I must go southwest to East 
Pittsburg. Even telling them I wanted to go by way of Wil- 
kinsburg didn’t alter their ideas any (although Wilkinsburg 
is almost directly north of Turtle Creek by the map); for the 
Pittsburg electric cars go by way of East Pittsburg, and there¬ 
fore that’s the way to go. At last I set out to travel what I 
thought was somewhat northward; and soon met a man who 
said I was on the “Wilkinsburg Pike,—the old Greensburg 
Pike.” 

After leaving Turtle Creek, the pike ran along the top of 
a ridge, and the view changed to more of a farming country 
again. Up on this ridge there was a little breeze, and not so 
suffocatingly hot; and, too, it was not such hard walking as 
it had been on the more recently rebuilt pikes. 

From a long hill, the road leads down into Wilkinsburg. 
On the left, at the top of the hill, on a banking high above the 
roadway, is perched a grey house, said to be the highest point 
in Allegheny County. The view from the road is extensive, 
and must be more so from the house. On all sides are the 
little valleys filled with towns,—the houses clustered closely 
together,—and every hill, also, partly covered by a thickly 
settled little town. In one direction, just over the intervening 
hills, some of the tops of the tall buildings of Pittsburg itself 
could be seen. All these towns are considered part of “Metro¬ 
politan Pittsburg.” 

In Wilkinsburg, there is one apparently very old brick 
house (on the inn style), partly demolished; but no one I 
asked knew anything about it. Until a few years ago, “the 
oldest house,” one of the pioneer log cabins, stood on a lot in 
the town. A colored family went to live in it, the board of 
health condemned it, and finally it burned down, the fire de¬ 
partment standing by to see that the fire didn’t spread to near¬ 
by buildings. 

After loafing an hour or more in a drug store in Wilkins¬ 
burg, where I got soda, sundae, and postcards, I started on, for 
my last four miles into Pittsburg, where mail and a post office 
order await my coming—I hoped. From Wilkinsburg, Penn 
Avenue runs into Pittsburg. About a mile along, Fifth Avenue 
crosses Penn Avenue, running into the downtown section. 
(And, by the way, the street is really “Penn” Avenue, named 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


37 


for William Penn, not abbreviated for “Pennsylvania.”) Along 
both streets are beautiful estates,—fine residences, large trees, 
and extensive lawns. Most of the estates are fenced with either 
stone or iron fences, giving an impression of their being really 
homes and not show estates. For several miles, almost every 
house is surrounded by lawns and shade trees. One side of 
the street seems to have more expensive houses than the other. 
I got a sense of comfortable, enjoyed wealth from these estates 
that I don’t remember to have felt about the residence section 
of any other city I have been in. 

Nearer the business part are many fine buildings,—the 
University of Pittsburg, the Carnegie Institute, the Athletic 
Club, and others; also a very large Jewish synagogue. 

When Fifth Avenue began to degenerate into the region of 
stores, I asked in a drug store for Chatham Street, feeling that 
in my travel-worn state, on Sunday Night, I had best go to the 
Y. W. C. A. 

“About fifteen blocks down.” 

I walked fourteen blocks (counted them),— and Pittsburg 
blocks in that direction and on that street are some long,—and 
then asked a man and woman I met where Chatham Street was. 

“A long way—a mile and a half—take a car down.” They 
began to insist on my taking a car then and there (one was 
coming), but 1 insisted I wanted to walk. Whereupon the man 
S lid if I didn’t have the change with me he would give me a 
nickle. I was so tired out, that a giggle escaped before I 
could head it off. I explained my reasons for wanting to walk. 

I walked on for a long time, and got down into the foreign 
quarter (of Fifth Avenue!—I suppose I was still on that 
street), and asked a man on a doorstep for Chatham Street: 

“A long way, a half hour’s walk—down to the town.” 

Walked twenty minutes more, and asked in a drug store 
—another foreigner: 

“Oh, a long way down, much as a mile—take a car.” 

Chatham Street finally appeared, as it had to, and I found 
the Y. W. C. A., only to be told that they were full, but if I 
waited an hour or two (it was 8:30 p.m. then), they might be 
able to give me a bed in a room with some other woman. I 
left and came here to the hotel. Running hot water and 
warmish water in the room. The hot water is iron-rusty look¬ 
ing; the warm just water color. The hot is boiling hot; the 
other faucet never runs very hot, but never cool. 

The clerk at the hotel asked, like any clerk would, “Any 
baggage?” Knowing that I would have to wait for money to 


38 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

get my P. O. order here, I felt guilty, and wondered what I 
should do if he asked me to pay in advance. But he didn’t. 
It being Sunday I can’t get money till to-morrow; and anyway, 
it’s too late to go to the Post Office to-night. Shall mail this 
bunch of daily bulletins back to-morrow. No Postmaster’s 
signature to-day. 

Wonder if to-day’s twenty miles was to the city limits or to 
the city hall. Seemed like 20 after I began asking for Chat¬ 
ham Street. 

Here, at Pittsburg, endeth the second week. 

PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA 

Monday, June 21. 

1 have done nothing to-day. Got up late, for the first time 
since I started on the trip. 

First I went down to the Post Office, where I waited till 
the Postmaster, a nice-looking, white-mustached business man, 
came in. He told me he would sign anything I wrote, but 
didn’t have time to write it himself. Odd what a difference a 
tone of voice makes in what is said. I feel quite crushed. 

I got my mail, including the box I mailed from Potomac 
and the straw bag from Gaithersburg. Then to Wells-Fargo 
office, where I got my suitcase that I had sent through from 
Washington, D. C., by express. When I got back here it was 
nearly two o’clock. The maid came in and while she cleaned 
up my room, I went down'and inspected the “Exhibition of oil 
paintings free to guests of hotel.” Suppose some one not a 
guest ventured to look at them; would there be a charge? or 
is one supposed to appreciate them more because they are “free 
to guests of the hotel”? Came back upstairs, read my mail, 
wrote a few letters, and now it is night. One letter told me 
if I didn’t make better time than I have so far, I would “never 
get to San Francisco”! 

This afternoon I telephoned to the Bureau of Mines, and 
made appointment for 9 o’clock to-morrow morning to go out to 
their building. Expect to go out to the Government Experi¬ 
mental Mine, and to some coal mines. 

Got the Pittsburg Gazette with the Frederic Haskins 
article about my tramp in it. Unusually accurate; only I 
didn’t start till June 7, instead of the week before, as it said. 

Reached Pittsburg in fine order; blisters all gone, and not 
a stiff muscle either at night or in the morning. The soles 
of my heels still hurt when I walk, and there is a queer sharp 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


39 


catch in one instep when I step, which has been there a day or 
two, at times. 

When I made out my schedule in Washington, I allowed 
two weeks to get to Pittsburg, though I didn’t count on walking 
Sundays. By walking both Sundays got here just on time. 
Changed my towns for stopping, but that is inevitable, and is 
why I didn’t write out my itinerary till the night before starting. 
I may go by way of Columbus and Indianapolis instead of Cin¬ 
cinnati. Am quite sure now I shall cut out Kansas City, unless 
I change my mind when I get farther along. 

Pittsburgh (the city seems to insist on the “h”, a certain 
learned Board to the contrary notwithstanding) is some city, 
and has been a pleasant surprise to me. It includes Allegheny 
(across the river on a high bank), and is all hills, and pockets 
between them. The main business section is in the hollow 
where the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers come together and 
form the Ohio River. Across the river, the abrupt high bank 
with buildings at the top reminds me, in its steepness, of the 
steep bluffs at Quebec. There are cable elevator-cars to take 
up passengers, teams, and automobiles from the level of the 
river to the higher ground. A number of bridges cross the two 
Rivers. 


PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA 

Tuesday , June 22. 

I went out to the Bureau of Mines (which is in the United 
States Arsenal Buildings). The “Engineer in Charge” had 
kindly arranged for the auto-truck to take me out to the 
Government Experimental Mine at Bruceton—fifteen miles, 
about an hour’s ride. Saw more of “Metropolitan Pittsburg,” 
thanks to the thoughtfulness of the man who had me in charge, 
going out and coming back different routes. 

When we got back from the Mine, we went through some 
of the buildings, saw various safety-lamp devices and how they 
work. I met the Engineer-in-charge, Mr. Rice, the inventor 
of the Rice device for stopping flames in mines when an ex¬ 
plosion occurs. In the Mines Buildings in an immense “Com¬ 
pression Testing Michine,” of ten millions pounds capacity,— 
a tall, powerful-looking creature, plainly labeled with its com¬ 
pressing ability. The compressee must be powerful tough it¬ 
self, for anything to be left of it after five thousand tons has 
squeezed it. 

It was after 4:30 P. M. when I got back, and too late to go 


40 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


to any of the coal companies’ offices here in town. Had lunch 
at a little restaurant on the way back from the mine, and din¬ 
ner in town. After my non-thirst-producing diet of the last 
two weeks, food seems an important item in my day, and being 
important, I cannot seem to resist setting down my meals. 

Got a lot of material for an article on the Experimental 
Mine and safety devices. Unless I should sit up all night, and 
then some, I wouldn’t have time to write out my notes. 

The Experimental Mine is a “drift” mine, run into the hill¬ 
side, where safety devices are tried out and the dangers and 
preventitives of danger in coal mines are illustrated to mine 
owners who care to come and see. 

The incombustible dust is placed in box-like containers, 
with shelves, at the sides and top of the passages, hinged in 
such a way as to fall when the force of the explosion reaches 
the controlling apparatus. 

The force of an explosion causes the dust to fall as a 
screen in the path of the flames; this smothers them and keeps 
them from spreading and causing explosions in other parts of 
the mine. Such screens of rock dust are very effective in 
keeping flames confined to one small section of a mine. The 
Rice “concentrated barrier of rock dust” has never had a 
failure, they say, though it is not yet used to any extent in 
mines. Mr. Rice’s patents are to be assigned to the Bureau 
of Mines, for the use of anyone who may wish to take advan¬ 
tage of his type of safety barriers for mines. 

There are several forms of these dust screens, but the gen¬ 
eral idea of all is the same: the force of the explosion causes the 
dust to fall as a screen in front of the advancing flames and 
to check their spread. 

Apparatus for registering the force and extent of the ex¬ 
plosions run through the main passage of the mine, the regis¬ 
ter being in the observatory, where there is a drum on which 
are recorded all the facts. Discs on wires record the velocity 
of the flame. Little pens, or pins, are connected with 
the wires; when the circuit is broken, the pen makes a 
mark. A kind of tuning fork is connected to a pen, and every 
time it vibrates a mark is made on the drum. These instru¬ 
ments can measure to hundredths of a second. 

Outside of the mine is a long wooden shed, or gallery,— 
that is, it is there when it isn’t burned up to show how mine 
explosions work, thus demonstrating the explosibility of coal 
dust. Inside of this gallery are sets of posts with shelves 
between, on which coal dust is put. Outside the shed, at one 



COAL DUST EXPLOSION GALLERY — BEFORE THE 
EXPLOSION 

“Outside of the Mine is a long wooden gallery—when it 
isn’t burned up” 



COAL-DUST EXPLOSION GALLERY — AFTER THE 
EXPLOSION 

“With the report of a cannon, the shed burst into flames” 






















TO SAN FRANCISCO 


41 


•end, and pointed into it, is a small cannon. This is. loaded with 
one pound of black powder and a tamping of five pounds of lime 
dust. 'We sat up on the hillside, a safe distance away, while 
a man fired off this little cannon (representing the force of 
an explosion in a coal mine). The flame from the shot ig¬ 
nites the coal dust, which is shaken from the shelves by the ex¬ 
plosion. Simultaneously with the report of the cannon, the 
whole shed seemed to burst into flame. A man with a big 
hose stood ready to save what he could of the shed for the next 
illustration. It is a most effective illustration of the explosive 
quality of coal dust. Galleries of this type are built in con¬ 
nection with “first-aid meets” held in different parts of the 
country, and dust ground from local coal is distributed through 
the gallery. 

In the experimental mine there is a method of photograph¬ 
ing an explosion, the photographs showing when the flames pass 
a particular “station,” by a photograph of it. And there are 
instruments for measuring the variation of pressure of the 
explosions. There were so many things I can’t begin to think 
of but a few of them. 

There are a considerable number of different kinds of 
miner’s lamps used. In England and Germany, no “cap-lamps” 
are used, though German firms build cap lamps to meet the 
requirements of this country; while we have the Edison 
and other types of lamps made in this country. Some miners 
—the workmen themselves—do not want to use a good lamp; 
they don’t want the trouble of using it. 

In mines where work is going on, every morning, several 
hours before the men go to work, the “fire-boss” goes around 
to test the amount of gas in the mine. The action of the cone- 
shaped flame in his lamp indicates to him the amount of gas 
in different parts of the mine. Sometimes men get so expert 
that they can tell, by the irregularity of the flame of the lamp 
when it is turned up, whether or not dangerous gas is present. 

PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA 

Wednesday, June 23. 

Took my letters, and went into one of the Coal Company’s 
offices. Saw the Vice-President and General Manager,— a 
large man,—who told me what the Bureau of Mines and others 
had already told me, that the mine companies now made it a 
rule not to let women go down in the mines. (Some superin¬ 
tendent had taken his wife down and she had been hurt in the 


42 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


mine.) This Manager called up the Company’s attorney, and 
asked me to come back later. When I went back, he had a 
paper written out, releasing the Company from any claim for 
damages if I should get hurt. He said they had a man killed 
yesterday at one of their mines; the man had stumbled and hit 
his head against the trolley wire. Gave me a letter to one of 
his superintendents, who was “just one year out of school.” 
I wonder how experienced mining men like to have an inex¬ 
perienced young man just a year out of school in charge over 
them. It would seem as if a man to be in charge as super¬ 
intendent ought to have had years of practical work in the 
business, even though he were a college graduate. 

Went to another Company, and saw the Secretary, I think 
it was, who gave me plain directions where to go to 
one of their mines, how to get there, and who to see. Looked 
up trains and hotels for me; said to have the other mine people 
let me get back in time to-morrow to catch the late afternoon 
train to his mine. 

Then to the third Company, where I saw an elderly man 
with white mustache. He, too, said half a day would not be 
enough time to see their mine; and, as the man he wanted to 
have show me the mine wouldn’t be there till Monday, to wait 
till then to see it. He gave me very specific directions what 
not to do: not to touch wires, not to put my hands out of the 
truck, if they took me into the mine in one of the electric trucks. 
Everything in that mine is done by electricity,—“a typical 
electric-run mine.” After receiving directions how to get to 
the mine, and many more warnings about safety, I left, taking 
with me the feeling that I was an obstreperous child who was 
insisting on doing something very foolish. 

This man seemed to have doubts if I would ever reach San 
Francisco. I suggested that I had got this far, and why not 
the rest of the way, to which he replied: 

“We consider Washington and Pittsburg very close to¬ 
gether.” 

The streets of Pittsburg have been paved with less regard 
for automobiles than any other city I know. Yesterday, the 
heavy Government auto-truck bounced over them in an aston¬ 
ishing manner. It is made, of course, for carrying heavy 
weights, and two people on the seat is not enough to steady it 
to any perceptible extent. 

There not being time to go to a mine today, I went out to 
find the old block house. It is surrounded by railroad tracks. 
Some society (the D. A. R. I think I was told) sued the rail- 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


43 


road company for damages. One man said they sued for $10,000 
and the suit is still on; another, that they had recovered 
$15,000. The blockhouse is at the end of Penn Avenue, with 
the keeper’s house in front. A tablet reads: 

Block House 
A Redoubt of Fort Pitt 

Built in 1764 
By Colonel Henry Bouquet 

The blockhouse is five-sided. Over the door: 

Block House 
A. D. 

1764 

Colnl Bouquet 

That evidently was put on when the blockhouse was built. 
Queer that they used to build blockhouses and forts down in 
hollows. There is another tablet: 

“The site of Fort Pitt built 1759-1761. 

Visited by George Washington 1753-1758-1770”. 

There seems to be some discrepancy in the dates—maybe I 
copied wrong. The blockhouse has steps (of a kind) going to 
the upper storey. The oblong loopholes (if that’s the proper 
word for gunholes in a blockhouse) are under the eaves, in 
the sides, and in four of the five corners; two are on each side 
of the door, which is in the centre of one side; three in each of 
the adjoining sides; and two in each of the sides that join in 
an angle. 

There seems to be no remains of the old Fort Duquesne, 
which the French built in 1754 and abandoned four years later, 
when the English walked in; and the old blockhouse is all 
that is left of the English fort. My history is too shy to 
know why the French should have walked out, after defeating 
the British, as is shown by a tablet on the Pittsburg Court 
House, which says: 

“On this hill the British under Major James Grant 
were defeated by the French and Indians from Fort Du¬ 
quesne, Sept. 14, 1758.” 


44 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

The Court House (built in 1888) has a main tower 320 
feet high. The Court House is connected with the jail—haven’t 
been in either, yet—by the “Bridge of Sighs.” 

I like Pittsburg, and am surprised not to find it sooty, 
as I have always understood it to be. But they tell me here 
that new regulations have abated considerable of the' soot 
nuisance. Anyway, I’m not nearly so dirty when I come in at 
night as I am after walking round Washington asphalt streets 
on a summer day. 

I have found a restaurant where they give good eats and 
lots of it. Seems to me I never tasted as good steak as they 
serve. I’m just eating—I arrived here so hungry! 

In my room in the hotel (suppose one is in every room) 
is a quarter-in-the-slot machine, from which you can get List- 
erine, Bromo^lithia, toothbrush, toothpowder, razor, shaving- 
stick, cold cream, or face powder; or the whole outfit for eight 
quarters. Never saw anything of the kind in a hotel room 
before—but that probably shows my ignorance! 

There are some of the oddest signs here. Red signs on 
the street corners in the business section read: 

Walk-rite 

Keep to the right 
Cross at the crossings 
Follow the traffic 

Drivers evade the crossing laws a good deal: will go on the left 
side of the street for half a block, if they see a good chance 
to pass other teams by doing so. The policemen seem to ignore 
this, though the man who took me out to Bruceton said it was 
against the traffic regulations. 

Pittsburg occupies not only the point of land between the 
Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers, but a strip on the south 
side of the latter, as well as what used to be the city of Alle¬ 
gheny, across the Allegheny River. There are the longest 
flights of steps, between the upper and lower levels, that I 
ever saw, not excepting the steps at Quebec. One, near Point 
Bridge, must be half a mile long altogether: The steps go up 
a way, then there is a platform to walk along on, then more 
steps, and so on. 

Pittsburg has always been of importance, ever since it was 
laid out in 1765, and had an important trade with the Indians. 
I always think of it now as the centre of iron, steel, and coal 
industries; but they tell me it is also the centre of the nat- 



MINE “ENTRY” AND “ROOM” 

'‘The roof coal requires constant propping up” 



THE “FIRE-BOSS” 

“Every morning the “fire-boss” goes around testing for gas 
in the mine” 



















TO SAN FRANCISCO 


45 


ural gas district; that in 1886 this gas was piped nineteen 
miles and used here. I learned , too, that this natural gas is 
the dreaded “fire damp” of the miners—but probably everyone 
but me knows that. It is claimed that the tonnage of the ves¬ 
sels that ply the three rivers at Pittsburg is greater than that 
of all the Mississippi River ports together, and greater than that 
of New York. Thus speaks Pittsburg through some of its 
residents. 


PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA 

Thursday, June 2U. 

Had left call for 5:45 a.m.; at 5:50 the bell rang (I was 
already up), and, notwithstanding my “Helloes” and “Yeses” 
and “All rights,” kept on ringing every few minutes. The girl 
on the switchboard said I hadn’t answered, so she couldn’t tell 
if I had heard itf 

Left Pittsburg before 7 a.m., to go out to my first mine. 
The Company’s office is in the Company’s store. As I got to 
the store, a short stout young man came out and asked if I 
was Miss Hill. At the same instant I accused him of being 
The Superintendent. I was much surprised at his —well, not 
exactly few years, for I knew he was only a “year out of 
school,”—but he seemed young for his age. Later, he told me 
about his college, and items of interest in his college course. 

The Superintendent turned me over to a man, to be shown 
the filtration plant for the water for the boilers. The water, 
which is full of acids and would spoil the boilers and water 
pipes, is pumped into a big tank in which are chemicals; from 
this it runs into another tank beside that one, where the water 
is much clearer; from that one, is filtered down into still an¬ 
other tank, from which it goes to the boilers, as needed, in a 
comparatively harmless condition. The first two tanks have 
a little ladder between them, up which I went. The water, on 
account of the steam system by which it is forced into the first 
tank, is quite hot. After I had stuck the end of my finger 
into all three tanks, and seen the electric light plant that fur¬ 
nishes power for the mine, the Superintendent came back. On 
the way to the mine entrance, he annexed a man to go into the 
mine with us. 

It is a “drift mine,”—that is, the entrance is a passage 
cut into the side of the hill, instead of down a shaft into the 
earth. The cars are run in the main passage by electric power, 
but brought from the rooms through the smaller side passages 


46 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


by mules; and here, as everywhere else, strangers are sup¬ 
posed to keep a safe distance from their heels.. A mule can 
haul only two loaded care. The electric current is carried by 
a heavy exposed wire perhaps four and a half feet, or five feet, 
high, at one side of the track. So, going into the mine and 
coming out, we walked in the side of the track farthest away 
from the feed wire. Following the example of the men, I kept 
my head tipped to the side away from the wire. 

Once, at a junction of passages, where we stood for a min¬ 
ute, I forgot the existence of the charged wire. A motion of 
the foreman’s hand toward it, with a murmured, “Wire over 
there”, recalled it to my mind, with as great a shock as if I 
had been two inches from it instead of two feet; and at no other 
time until I got out of the mine, was I unconscious of that 
charged wire. Probably his mine intuition is so keen that he 
recognizes at once when a visitor has forgotten the charged 
wire momentarily. I felt very guilty, as I might have felt 
had I knowingly transgressed some mine rule—wonder if he 
knew that, too. 

Almost the entire trip through the mine, I had to keep 
stooped over a little,—sometimes more and sometimes less,— 
as a great part of the passages were lower than I am tall. 
The passages are just wide enough for the little cars to run 
through with a little space to spare. The cars we walked past 
that were standing still, we got by very easily—sometimes turn¬ 
ing a little sideways. But they do not count on walking past 
moving cars, so here and there are spaces cut in the sides of 
the passages to allow standing room while the cars go by. 

The vein of marketable coal in this mine is about five 
feet thick (high). Above that is “roof coal”, which is partly 
coal and partly stone; and there are also layers of limestone 
and slate. These rapidly disintegrate on exposure to the air, 
after the coal has been mined from under, and require constant 
watching and propping up. The space to be mined is divided 
into areas, each called a “panel”. Passages are cut around the 
panel, and then they begin to cut out the coal, making “rooms”. 
Uncut coal i§ left between the rooms, to support the top. 

In cutting the coal, they start with one room, and when 
they get enough undercut, put in explosives to break up the 
coal; and while they are taking that coal out, they start a 
second room, leaving a solid block of coal between the rooms; 
and so on. So that by the time the last room of that “panel” 
has been well started, the first one has had all the coal taken 
out of it. At the same time, the cutting comes down the other 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


47 

half of the panel in the same way, two opposite “rooms” break¬ 
ing into each other. 

For cutting out the rooms, a machine (electric power) 
is used with a lot of sharp bits on a chain that revolves. These 
bits cut a place in the coal, near the bottom of the vein, about 
three feet wide and several inches high. When six feet in has 
been cut, the machine is moved along and cuts the next coal. 
The width of the rooms are 21 to 23 feet, so it takes seven 
cuts to a room. When the 21 feet has been undercut (going 
into the vein six feet), holes are drilled and charges shot into 
the coal above the undercut. The first charge is called a 
“tight side”, and is usually put near the right side of the rift 
of coal that is to be broken up. The charges used afterward 
are “loose sides.” The reason is evident: the coal above the 
undercut is of course solid (and therefore tight) till after the 
first charge has broken some of it up; then it has space to give 
way in, and is comparatively “loose”. Some undercutting 
machines, instead of cutting straight in, cut sideways and move 
automatically along. 

In clearing out a room, after the coal has been loosened 
by undercutting and charging, the men usually work by twos, 
the two working together in a cut being called “buddies.” 

A “panel” is 1500 feet long and 500 feet wide. The rooms 
are widened out at the back. A room is started every 30 feet 
along the passage, the “neck” of it being about 13 feet wide, 
and then widening out to 21 feet. The entries, or what I call 
passageways, are 9 feet wide. The passages that run in the 
same direction as the rooms are called face entries; the ones 
that the rooms are worked from, butt entries. 

“Morgan-Gardner machines are used in driving rooms and 
entries. Sullivan short-wall continuous cutting machines are 
used in drawing the ribs and pillars. The room and pillar ad¬ 
vancing on one side of the panel and retreating on the other 
side is the system of mining employed.” (This is not from a 
circular, but is the Superintendent’s wording.) 

While cutting the rooms, the roof coal (or slate or lime¬ 
stone) is propped up with posts and pieces of wood across the 
tops of the posts and from one post to another. After the 
rooms are all cut and the coal taken out, the men go to the end 
of the panel that was mined last, and cut away and haul out the 
first solid wall of coal. When this is out, they take away the 
ceiling props of the first room and let the top fall in behind 
them as they work, till all those walls of coal are taken away, 


48 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


one after another. The wooden props are used again in some 
other part of the mine. 

Air is constantly pumped into the mine. Every morning^ 
not earlier than 4 a.m., (the miners go to work at 7 a.m.), the 
“fire boss” goes his rounds testing for gas. About 450 men are 
employed in this mine, the average daily product being 1500 
tons. 

After a while we sat down on some wooden beams to wait 
for “Bill”, the mine foreman, to come along and show us the 
parts of the mine where they are working on the coal. No 
outsider is supposed to be taken into the part of the mine that 
is being worked, without the mine foreman,—one of the mine 
regulations,— as he is responsible for those parts of the mine. 

The miners were working with lights stuck in their caps,— 
quite like pictures of miners. Only, as but two were working 
in each little room, somehow there did not seem to be much 
work going on. I suppose to realize how much is being done, 
one should see the miners coming out at night. 

Now and then a miner, looking up and seeing the “boss”,— 
the foreman,— would knock on the roof with his pick,—whether 
protection against the possible evil eye of the strange woman 
or to attract the attention of the genius of the mine, I do not 
know. 

The hill where this mine is located has a depression run¬ 
ning across part of it, which is a swamp on the surface. A 
pump is kept at work all the time, getting rid of the water. 
Some of the passages were quite wet; in one or two places for 
a short distance we walked on the rails to keep out of the water. 
The mine was neither so wet nor so dirty as I expected. In 
the Pittsburg office I had been told I would get quite wet and 
very dirty. 

On one side of the hill, we came out of one entrance, cross¬ 
ed over a depression in the hill, and went into the mine again 
at an opposite entrance. This particular coal mine has the 
coal vein lying horizontally, though coal veins do dip at all 
sorts of angles. 

The little cars, as they come from the mine, are run over 
to the “tipple”, where they dump the coal on to screens. The 
finest coal and coal dust (slack) runs through the first screen 
into one car. The next screen lets through, into another car, 
everything between % inch and 1 X A inch (nut coal). Every¬ 
thing 1% inch and over goes into a third car. The men get 
paid piecework, and only for the 1% inch and over, I understood 
the Superintendent to say; though now that doesn’t seem quite;- 



THE TIPPLE 

“Where the coal comes down the tipple into cars a man. 
sits watching” 























TO SAN FRANCISCO 


49 


fair, so perhaps I misunderstood. He explained that if they 
were paid for dust and smallest coal, they might be careless 
and break the coal up fine, which is much the quickest and 
easiest way to mine it. The men who run the undercutting 
machines also get paid by weight in the same way. 

Where the large coal comes down the tipple into the rail¬ 
road cars, men sit watching it; and when a man sees a piece 
that has slate or limestone fall in, he jumps down and throws 
out the offensive piece. 

I was weighed at this mine. Have lost 16 % pounds since 
leaving Washington: from 156^ to 140. I knew I had lost 
weight, but I didn’t think it was so much. I expressed a doubt, 
and they brought out weights and “proved up” the scales. 

After another talk with the Superintendent, I took the 
Pittsburg car. 

PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA 

Friday, June 25. 

Yesterday, after I got back into Pittsburg, went to have my 
shoes fixed. The shop is very near the Pa. Station, though it 
took me a long time to find it: wandered round and round the 
wrong block. The shoemaker did a fine job. He runs his 
machines by electric power, and is really some bright man. 
Up on the wall is a big sign, in verse, which “Joe” said he made 
up himself: 

“It’s the soles of the people I keep in view 

For I am the doctor of boot and shoe; 

And I serve the living and not the dead, 

With the best leather, wax, nails and thread,” etc. 

I left Pittsburg a little after 5 o’clock, and got out to the 
mine town about 8 p.m. Part of the way was back through 
the same towns I had walked through coming to Pittsburg,— 
with their thick brownish smoke. Went to the hotel, which I 
supposed was near the mine, but this morning found it some 
little distance away; took a street car out and was ten minutes 
late. The Manager had left the place of agreed meeting at 
9 o’clock sharp, but came back about 9:30. He took me up to 
the charcoal smelters and explained them, and then into the 
mine. 

I wouldn’t have missed this mine for anything. Yesterday, 
in spite of the newness of the experience, I felt distinctly disap- 


50 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

pointed. Just why, I do not know. Possibly a little of it was 
due to the ether being a “drift” mine, while this is a shaft 
mine; and, to my mind, one should go down into a mine, not 
just walk into a tunnel in the hillside. Then, too, I had ex¬ 
pected to see dozens of miners at work together,—not knowing 
that they worked two or three together, in “rooms”. However, 
I am again too tired to write out my many notes. 

Anyway, the mine is a shaft mine—and to me, that makes 
it a really mine. Offices, and so on, are in the mine itself; 
with plans of the passages and rooms and such like. 

First, the manager took me up to the ovens where the char¬ 
coal is being made; tons and tons of coal are put in, and tons 
and tons of charcoal taken out, after the coal has been kept 
burning in the tightly-closed ovens. 

These long rows of charcoal ovens, that one sees from the 
train gleaming so spasmodically and fiercely red at night, 
look quite commonplace on close view by daylight,—at first. 

Twenty-three of these ovens are filled each day, and the 
coke is drawn from 23 each day. Into them 1500 to 1600 tons 
of coal a day is put and manufactured into coke. The coal 
loses about a third in burning, so that nine tons of coal makes 
about six tons of coke. 

“Larry” is the genius of the coke ovens; he runs his little 
cars around, putting coal into the bins, each one of which holds 
just as much as will go into an oven. 

Previous to the invention of the coke drawing machine, the 
ovens were “drawn” by hand. The machine will draw an oven 
in ten minutes and in the same time put in the coal. Where 
the doors used to be openings that had to be filled up with brick 
after the coke was drawn, now iron doors lined with tile are 
used. 

None of the coal taken from the near-by mine is used for 
any other purpose than making coke. Fuel coal land is obtain¬ 
able at a much less figure per acre than this. Coke is so much 
more efficient than other fuel that it is in demand at even 
remote places where a long freight haul is necessary. There 
is a large market for it right here in the Pittsburg furnaces, 
and in Western Pennsylvania; it also goes west to Chicago and 
Milwaukee; north to Canada, and south to Mexico. 

After seeing the ovens, we went over to the mine. In the 
mine, in addition to the many other passages, long and short, 
there was one about four miles long. I thought I would like 
to go to the far end of that passage; but, since we could see 
all of the same work without going so far, the manager de- 



THE MINER 











TO SAN FRANCISCO 


51 


cided we would not go to the end of the passage. We went only 
part way along it, in a little electric car, controlled by an en¬ 
gineer in an office. I felt some doubt if a man sitting away 
off somewhere in an office could stop the car at just the right 
place, but he did. He has before him a chart, a “Tatler” 
showing time, and the location and speed of the car. 

No need of stooping over in this mine—the roof was high. 
The foreman, another “Bill”, (are all mine foremen named 
“Bill”?) went with us in to where the men were mining. 

As in the other mine, when a man looked up and saw the 
“Boss”,—i. e. Bill,— he would tap the ceiling with his pick; 
all these men put the tips of their fingers up against the roof 
while tapping it. All but one. That man the foreman asked 
questions,—wasn’t he a new man? where had he worked? etc.; 
then explained to the miner that when he tapped the roof with 
his pick, he must also always put his hand up to the roof. It 
was the man’s not doing this that showed to the foreman that 
he was a new hand in that mine. The rule is very strictly 
enforced there. 

The idea of tapping the roof with the pick when the “boss” 
comes round, is to show him that the roof is safe, and does not 
need props where there are none. Miners do not like, it seems, 
to waste time propping up the roof; and if there were not some 
such rule, they might let a roof go so long it would fall on 
them. Tapping the roof shows whether or not it is shakey, 
and by touching the roof with the tips of his fingers, the miner 
could feel the tremor, which always proceeds the falling of the 
roof, and would have time to get away from under before it 
fell, if it should fall, or to prop it up. 

In one room into which we went, the miners had got nearly 
all the coal out and were in the farthest end. Their lights 
were hidden from me, they being between us and the lights. 
The blackness of the coal, the apparent dimness of the lights, 
and their grotesque shadows made them seem like some under¬ 
ground weird figures. They seemed to be in a dim haze—of 
course it was our distance from them gave the effect. When 
one looked behind him and saw us standing there and put up 
his hand and tapped the roof with the pick, and his huge 
shadow did the same, the weird effect was increased. 

By and by, a young man met us, and the foreman and he 
dropped back a little way. I just caught the word “fall”; in a 
few minutes, they overtook us, and the manager dropped back 
with the man, while the foreman walked ahead with me. I 


52 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

waited about half an hour, to see if I would get any information 
about the “fall”. Then I asked, 

“Where was the fall?” 

I thought they might put me off. But the Manager said 
that I had missed the chance to be on the wrong side of the fall. 
If we had gone to the end of the four-mile passage as I wanted 
to, we would have had to stay there for a few hours. The roof 
had fallen at a place in that passage, temporarily shutting in 
the miners inside the “fall.” There was no danger for them. 
And I wished we had gone in to the end: probably my first and 
only chance to be on the wrong side of a “fall” in a mine. 

I am no longer disappointed: this mine was worth going 
into. I do not know why the other one was a disappointment, 
but it was. 

Had lunch at the hotel, and back to Pittsburg late in the 
afternoon. 

At the restaurant where I have been eating in Pittsburg, 
in the morning a whole basket of rolls is set on the table before 
me. In it the other morning were eleven rolls. 

All along the way have been wild roses. Down in Mary¬ 
land the roses at first were the deepest pink I ever saw; then, 
the color of Massachusetts wild roses; and later, very small 
pink blossoms. 

Am going to change my route. Shall go west from Colum¬ 
bus, instead of going through Cincinnati. I can go to Indian¬ 
apolis, and then take the St. Louis road. Also, I have decided 
not to go out to the electrically run mine. 

PITTSBURG TO NEAR FLORENCE, PENNSYLVANIA 

Saturday , June 2d. 

Left the Hotel at Pittsburg quite early; went to my same 
restaurant for breakfast, and only just this morning discovered 
there are half a dozen restaurants of the same name in the 
eity, and I was fortunate to get the one I did. Then went to 
Joe’s, to get a tap on my heels; thought it best to get it done 
there where I knew it would be well done. Joe was not in, 
and the other man said he couldn’t do the work; but after I 
waited an hour, he did put the taps on. Lost time. 

Following directions as to the shortest way west out of 
Pittsburg, I went over to Allegheny, to Fort Wayne Depot, 
turned to the left, and went down the street. Asked at garage, 
and was sent back, “across the Federal Street bridge, down 
Liberty Avenue and Water Street, and across Point Bridge 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


53 


across the Monongahela River.” More time lost. In walking 
out to Point Bridge, there doesn’t seem to be any more of a 
point than in other places, but the map shows the point. The 
bridge is just where the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers 
join to form the Ohio. 

In the Allegheny Post Office the man signed my slip this 
morning at 10 a.m. as “Asst. Supt., North Diamond Station.” 
I wonder if a post office that has once been the office of a 
city likes to be a “station” of a bigger office, when one city is 
gobbled by another. Mailed Daily Bulletins back. 

After crossing Point Bridge, went along a road by the 
water, then up a long paved hill—and it was long—and down 
the other side on to a mud road. Was carrying my straw bag 
again, and the handle squeaked, so got some oil for it in a little 
store; boy wouldn’t take pay for the oil, so bought something. 
The little store was on a hill, and down another long hill I went, 
and on to the “Steubenville Pike.” 

Along the pike toward Steubenville, at the top of a hill in 
one of the suburbs of Carnegie, I found the Hotel Summit, and 
had lunch. (Are all hotels at tops of hills named “Summit 
Hotel?”) After I had paid for my lunch, the proprietor, in 
talking, found what I was doing, and tried to make me take 
the money back, which of course I refused to do; but just as 
I started, his daughter put it in my pocket. This man once 
bet that he could walk 36 miles in a day. It took him ISV 2 
hours, and he hustled right along, with the result that he fell 
from exhaustion as he came in the door at the end of the walk, 
and was sick for three days, with hands and feet swollen up. 
He is a big stout man,—think of the poor thing, without any 
practice, walking 36 miles in one day! 

After lunch, on along the Steubenville Pike, looking for a 
hotel I had been told was ahead of me. All long up and down 
hills. 

At a crossroads where a sign said “26 miles to Steuben¬ 
ville,” a man (a pleasant blonde, stout man) came out of a 
motor supply store and talked. He was “baching” in the little 
square house, which is both house and shop for him. When he 
found I was walking, wanted to know if I was “in hard luck.” 

After the chat at the crossroads, on up the pike, with many 
warnings from people who talked to me, that it wasn’t “all 
good road,” but later was “mud road.” Came to the mud road, 
which, though of course not so good for autos, was nearly as 
hard as the pike, and better walking. 

About 6 o’clock, not having found the hotel, I asked a 


54 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


woman to sell me supper. (Have learned to say sell every 
time.) So here I am and here I am to stay all night. The 
woman said the hotel I was looking for was a place I wouldn t 
want to stay; that the foreigners from the mines came up 
(Saturday nights and “got full;” that there had been a row 
there a week or so ago, and some one got hurt; and this is 
Saturday night. The family here is man and wife and seven 
children, from four to eighteen. The Mrs. is very stout and 
very likable; have hardly seen the Mr. 

Counting my trip to Allegheny, must have made at least 


25 miles to-day. 

Some large farms through the country I passed to-day, and 
a number of oil wells. In front of one house a pipe was sunk, 
and half a dozen feet above ground, the top had an arrange¬ 
ment like the street venders have to light their peanut stands, 
and there it burned away, in broad daylight. Natural gas. 
They tell me many people that have natural gas on their places 
burn it night and day that way. 


EAST OF FLORENCE, PENNSYLVANIA, TO 
STEUBENVILLE, OHIO 

Sunday , June 27. 

Slept on a folding bed last night, in a room by myself. I 
specify a “room by myself,” because there was not much spare 
space in the house, and they were going to put two of the child¬ 
ren on the folding bed and give me a bed in a room that had 
two beds where two of the other children slept, but I asked 
for the other arrangement, and so was given the folding bed,— 
with regret on the part of the Mrs., for fear I wouldn’t be 
comfortable on it. Last night was a very dark night. 

Was up quite early this morning, but “Pap” and the oldest 
boy—the latter comes home only Saturdays—were late, and 
breakfast was waited for them. My hostess wouldn’t set a 
price for my staying; said she would leave it to me. But her 
husband wouldn’t let her take what I wanted to pay; refused to 
take more than a dollar. 

Got away at 8:15. Came by lots and lots of oil derricks; 
but it being Sunday, all were quiet, except one. That one I 
think the man must have forgotten: the pump was pumping 
away, though everything was shut up, even the doors of the 
pump house being propped shut with poles. Perhaps the en¬ 
gineer began his Saturday Night too early. When I passed 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


55 


the hotel where I hadn’t stayed last night, it looked peaceful, 
and as if asleep. 

As I went along, I met one or two foreigners, and saw to 
the right a cluster of houses that meant a small mining town. 
Perhaps it was a hotel there that my landlady thought I meant, 
instead of the sleepy roadside one. 

Part of the road to-day was nice and shady, not yet having 
been “improved” by Road Commissioners. Twenty-five years 
from now other Commissioners will be planting trees to take 
the place of the beautiful ones that are to-day sacrificed to 
make “improved” roads. 

Just as I got to Florence, I saw a pretty house from which 
a boy crossed the road to a pump. I asked if his mother would 
let me have dinner, and asked him for a drink. He said he 
would get me water when he took the pail into the house—noth¬ 
ing at the pump to drink from. We crossed to the house and 
I sat down on the porch. Presently a colored man came out, 
and said, none too pleasantly, “What’s the trouble?” I said 
I was waiting for the boy to bring me a drink; just then he 
came out with it, and I went on. Had got all over my wish 
to have dinner at his mother’s. Several other children came 
out, all negroes. The boy was so light it had never occured 
to me he was colored. 

At the house in Florence where I did get lunch at 12:30, 
the front room was arranged for the benefit of wayfarers. 
There were mirror, clothes brush, button hook,—every provi¬ 
sion for the traveller,—even to a comb! The porch was cover¬ 
ed with roses in bloom. A pretty place. The man of the 
house had been through the West; told me lots about it—things 
that I already knew. By this, I knew that he had really been 
in the West. Left Florence at 2:45 p.m. 

Good views from the hills to-day—fine grass and grain 
fields. All hilly and hollows. Passed a schoolhouse, labelled, 
“Coventry School House, 1876.” Got acquainted with a nice 
little chipmunk. In one place, as a man was driving cows 
along the road, an auto came along. Of course the cows got 
in front of the car, and one kept just ahead of it and wouldn’t 
get off the road. The road was too narrow for the auto to pass 
her, the sides of the road sloping steeply into a gully. The man 
said a cow often did that, keeping autos back. 

On one of the signboards that read “Steubenville,” some 
one had added, “100 m.” The poor thing must have been walk¬ 
ing. By signboards, 43 miles from the Pittsburg line to Steu¬ 
benville. 


56 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


The crick in my right instep, that bothered me in Pittsburg, 
except when I had on my high-heeled shoes, is gone to-day. A 
great relief; it had fretted me, as I didn’t know what caused it. 

A long, long, shady down hill road led “down to 'the 
Cove’,” as a man had called it; and I appreciated his putting 
“down to” before it, when he spoke of how far it was to Hal- 
liday’s Cove. One mile of down hill. At the Cove, I asked 
a woman about supper, and she said I could get it at “Hoover’s.” 
Another woman told me to go to another house, off the road. 

I went. There a young woman at first said I couldn’t have 
any supper; that she never got any supper on Sunday night. 
But when I told her I wanted to pay for it, and didn’t icare if 
it was only bread and butter, she said, ungraciously: 

“You can sit down with the rest”. 

If, as she said, she never got any supper Sundays, “the 
rest” ought to have been grateful to me, since she got it ready. 
“The rest” were the men of the family: two young men, “Pap,” 
and an old white-bearded man—grandpap, I suppose. Appar¬ 
ently the women, of whom I saw several, ate separately from 
the men and outsiders like me. 

Left the Cove at 7 o’clock by way of a street with houses 
quite close together, after the road crossed under the steam 
railroad track; and under this bridge, and for a little way 
beyond, there is room only for the electric car track, which runs 
from the Cove to Steubenville. There is a double curve, there, 
too. That surely is a place wherecone should “Stop, look, and 
listen.” An apology for an Irish terrier came out from one 
yard and followed me, barking; but after I picked up a piece 
of wood that lay in the road, he kept quite a little space be¬ 
tween us, and at last concluded to investigate a bull terrier he 
saw in a yard we passed. 

Some distance farther along, the road (but not the elec¬ 
tric car track) was closed, and a sign said it was closed “to 
Richter St. on account of slip.” I had already been told of a 
“slip” in the road, and that I might not be able to get through. 
I went on and on, and began to disbelieve in the slip: when 
T came to it. The left banking had “slipped” in one place, and 
earth and large rocks had fallen to the road. One rock was 
so large it filled the roadway, just missing getting in the way 
of the electric cars. On the left of this road, for a mile or 
two, there is a high banking above the road; on the right of 
the road, is the car track, and another steep banking,—that 
one going down to the steam railroad track below. 

Before this, I had come within sight of the railroad bridge 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


57 


over the Ohio River. Men were walking over it. The wagon 
road where I was walking was so high I could see that there 
were boards between the railroad tracks, to walk on, and 
apparently also between the rails. I considered daring to try 
to walk across, but didn’t get up courage to try it. By the 
time I got to the “slip,” I could see another bridge over the river, 
ahead of me. It looked near, but it took me over half an hour 
to reach it. It seemed as if I should never get to this bridge— 
it looked so near when I first saw it, but didn’t seem to get 
a bit nearer for a long time. During that half hour, I passed no 
house, though there had been a few along the river-bank road. 
A man was fixing the car signals; I asked him if the bridge 
was for foot passengers, and he only stared at me. Then I 
asked him if one could walk over it (thought he might recog¬ 
nize the word “walk” even if he didn’t know what “foot pas¬ 
sengers” were), and he said, “Yah, cars,” and I realized he 
was a foreigner. Dusk was coming, and, if this bridge should 
prove an electric car trestle, with no place to walk, where 
should I find another bridge? Another little panic. 

After I got out of sight of this man (the road kept curv¬ 
ing), a young man passed me. Shortly after, the bar across the 
“Richter St.” end of the road came in view, with a man standing 
there. It was getting dusky. The man who had passed me, 
when in sight of the man at the bar, took off his hat and carried 
it in his hand; in a moment, the man at the bar turned and 
walked towards the bridge. I amused myself wondering if they 
knew each other, and if carrying his hat in his hand was some 
signal (getting melodramatic I was). The head man stood still, 
and the other man passed him, and then the former walked on. 
And it got darker. I got within sight of and near the end 
of the bridge. A horse and buggy were tied to the fence; two 
foreigners were standing in the road; the man who had passed 
me was sitting on the fence; the other man was standing on the 
sidewalk. The two foreigners crossed to the side of the road I 
was on, and walked to the bridge right behind me. At the end 
of the bridge were trees and bushes. And it was dusk, and no 
person except those four, and no house in sight. Nor was any¬ 
one in sight on the bridge,—the Ohio is very wide here, and 
in the dusk it was impossible to see to the Ohio end of the 
bridge. I had the first real shivers down my spine that I’ve 
had since starting from Washington. 

The bridge is for electric cars, but has a sidewalk. I 
started across, looking down-stream, so as to be able to see if 
the men followed me,—with only too clear an idea how easy it 


58 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

would be for them to throw anyone over the railing into the 
river. They didn’t, of course, follow me. 

Relieved of that fear, my foolish “bridge fear” got me. 
The bridge is very high over the water, and in many places 
planks do not set quite close together and through the cracks 
I saw the water far below. Now and then, I caught hold of 
the framework, to steady my knees. 

And then—a shabby man was back of me. That braced 
me up some, especially when I saw, by looking over the rail 
at the water downstream (when I could see him out of he cor¬ 
ner of my eye), that he was gaining on me. Nevertheless, I 
suffered miserably from bridge fear till I got across. At the 
Steubenville end of the bridge, there was an office in which 
sat two young men. After passing it, I turned back, and asked 
them for a telephone directory; really, to let the man get past 
me. There he was at the window putting down some change, 
and I then realized it was a toll bridge. 

After getting down to the street on the Steubenville side, 
I asked a man and woman sitting in a doorway about a hotel. 
They suggested the Imperial or this one. I took this, as I 
don’t want to have to telegraph for money, and my next P. 0. 
order will meet me at Columbus. Now wish I had taken the 
Imperial; the hotel man here looked surprised when I asked 
for ice water; think it’s the first call he ever had for it. 

Reached Steubenville about 8:50; about 27 miles in all 
to-day. 

The Ohio River is the boundary between West Virginia 
and Ohio; crossed the Pennsylvania-West Virginia line about 
ten miles east of here. Talk about seven-league boots: I’ve 
been in three States to-day: Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and 
Ohio. 


STEUBENVILLE TO CADIZ, OHIO 

Monday , June 28. 

To the Post Office at 7:45 this morning. The Assistant- 
Postmaster looked up the matter, and told me to go up Market 
Street (the main street), up the hill, and straight on till I came 
to “what we call ‘The Forks’;” that “White’s” was in the angle 
of the Forks, and to turn to the left there; then keep on through 
Bloomfield to Cadiz. I couldn’t find Bloomfield on the map I 
have, but did find Bloomingdale. 

After breakfast, bought a pair of inner soles, which I went 
into the depot farther down Market Street and put in. The day 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


59 


I bought these sneakers in Mt. Pleasant, Pa., I found a cut in 
the left sole, right in the middle. It has been growing longer, 
and is now all the way across the sole. However, it is not worn 
yet—just a clean cut across the rubber. Hence my need of 
inner soles. 

Then I began to go up the Market Street hill, and kept on 
going up until I must have been much above Steubenville’s 730 
foot elevation. Above the railroad, for a space after the stores 
ended, colored people live on both sides of the street. Then the 
hill went on out (rather, up) into the thinly settled part. Ask¬ 
ed a fat, brewery-looking man for The Forks. He had never* 
heard of them; apparently he was not one of the “we” of 
Steubenville. But he did know “White’s.” 

“Oh, it’s a day's walk—five or six miles out. But there’s 
a hack you can take out there.” 

I didn’t take the hack, and it didn’t take me a day to walk 
to White’s. Didn’t recognize either “The Forks” or “White’s’* 
when I got there, but happened to take the right road (the^ 
left-hand one). 

All day long, every mile or two, I have been having to de-* 
cide which of two roads to take at “the forks.” Have never 
in one day met so many forks, where both roads seem well 
travelled. 

In a nice little village—Winterdale,—was a tablet at the cor¬ 
ner of two streets: 

“Gen. George H. Morgan, in command of Confederate 
troops passed here July 25, 1863. proceeded northward 
via Richmond pursued by Gen. James M. Shackelford com¬ 
manding 14th Ill. Cav., First Ky. Cav., 9th Mich. Cav., 
11th Mich. Bat’y, 86 Ohio Mounted Inf., 2d Tenn. Mounted 
Inf., and Steubenville Militia. In engagement here Mili¬ 
tiaman Henry L. Parks was wounded, died July 27, 1863. 
Miss Margaret Daugherty in Thomas Maxwell’s house 
was severely wounded.” 

Rather a formidable array to chase those Confederates! Of 
course, as on all tablets, the date of erection and the name of 
the erectors are given! 

Going up one of the longish hills before I got to Winter- 
dale, I met a tall thin man (many teeth missing), with a gun 
in part of a guncase (a red and white handkerchief wound 
round the lock of it), a box on his back, and two dogs. He 1 
had walked from somewhere up in Northern Michigan—and 


60 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

he looked it. The dogs were small hounds, brown and white. 
He was carrying his supplies—50 pounds altogether when 
fully loaded, he said—in a wooden box on his back. Had start¬ 
ed out with a knapsack, but it wore out. Was going to Pitts¬ 
burg, where a man was to join him, and then they would go 1 
north into Canada for shooting. Had been ill, and was taking 
this way of regaining his health. He carried an electric flash 
light, on the order of the little tubes, but the biggest one I have 
seen. He had been having trouble with the wardens on ac¬ 
count of his gun; but each time they arrested him, they had be¬ 
lieved his story and let him go again. When no one cares to/ 
take him in for the night, he sleeps in a barn when one is 
handy. 

He has found some of the farmers very mean; has 
had dogs set on him, when he has been crossing fields and 
farms. One farmer directed him to go in the wrong direction' 
for a certain town; but he took the other direction, feeling sure 
the farmer was sending him wrong “just for meanness.” That 
evening, he saw the farmer in the town he had asked directions 
to, and reminded him of it, and the farmer said he had mis-> 
directed him “for a joke.” 

At one farmhouse where he stopped for supplies, he asked 
the woman for “a dollar’s worth of grub.” After going on he 
thought the package was light, and on opening it found only* 
one loaf of bread and some cheese. He went back to the house; 
this time finding the farmer himself there; showed the “grub’* 
that the woman had charged him a dollar for. The farmer* 
gave him a lot of food, and insisted on returning the dollar 
well. 

All this doesn’t sound very encouraging for my trip, as 
I have so often to depend on people giving me directions. 

On up little hills, from which I could see other sloping hills 
and hollows, and down into little hollows. 

At 12 o’clock, asked at a house if I could buy some dinner. 
The two young women told me “dinner is over”; asked to buy 
some bread and milk, or a cup of tea or coffee, and was told 
that they had no bread baked, and everyone round there sold 
their milk, didn’t save any. A minute or two later, met an 
elderly woman and asked her if she knew anyone that would let 
me have a lunch—that I wanted to pay for it, of course. She 
said she would. So I had bread and butter, stewed fresh 
cherries, jam and tea,— a good lunch. Then she refused to 
take pay for it. I hate that! but I knew if I were her, I would 
refuse to let anyone pay, so don’t blame her, from her point of 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


61 


view. She directed me to go through Bloomfield and Hopedale! 
to Cadiz. 

Left the house where I had lunch a little before 2 o'clock, 
and travelled on, and it was some hot! To the railroad (a 
mile) it was nearly all down hill. 

Got to Bloomfield about 4 p.m. Bloomfield is the town 
name; the Post Office is Bloomingdale. The Postmaster, a 
woman, told me Cadiz was 12 V 2 miles farther,—26 from Steu¬ 
benville. 

After more up little hills and down little hills, I came 
to Hopedale, where I had supper. They said Cadiz must be 
about seven miles from there. I walked for 35 minutes 
(through the same kind of country), and asked, to learn: 

"Six miles.” And I had hustled for 35 minutes! 

Twenty minutes later, I came to an advertising stone of 
some garage at Cadiz,—“5 miles”. These advertising stones 
are quite a scheme; and really very satisfactory to me, everi 
though garages mean less than nothing these days, and the! 
miles given are often the distance in a direct line, not the 
distance I must walk. 

The sun set, and I tried to hurry. On a lonesome hill, 
where the road twisted, a man on horseback passed me; he said 
Cadiz was "about two miles”. Down another long hill, and up) 
another, and—an electric light shone out on a hill somewhere 
ahead! It was getting dusky, and that light looked good, even 1 
though I knew it must be a mile and a half away. 

A little before Cadiz, there is quite an uphill, after cros¬ 
sing a bridge over a stream. It was very like the weary up¬ 
hill at Grantsville; only to-night it was earlier, and going up 
this long hill there weren’t trees on the sides of the road. Up! 
the hill, then down, and up a second hill (that had trees in one 
place on the roadside). On this second hill part of the town 
is built—the residence part. When I got up it, I asked a 
woman where there was a hotel, and she sent me here. It 
seems very nice (may my money hold out to Columbus!). 
Got here feeling less tired than usual. 

These Ohio hills are like I remember them from the first 
time I crossed the State in the train—gradual slopes, not very 
high, and with a few trees here and there. 

On the road between Hopedale and here, I pased through 
a tiny strip of woods—very short. What made it impress me 
particularly was that in Hopedale I had been told that the road 
to Cadiz was "built up” all the way, and no woods to go'' 


6i2 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

through; whereas the houses are very far apart, never within 
sight of each other except where a couple are close together. 

The little rabbits are quite tame on the roads—nice brown 
bunnies with little white tails. Also saw half a dozen little 
red pigs—real auburn pigs. 

The town crier has just announced another arrival. He is 
a dog at a house a little way down the hill from here. Before I 
reached his house, I heard him barking, a three-syllable bark, 
in two sections: 

“Bow-wow-wow, bow-wow-wow,”—“Auto comes, up the 
hill.” 

When I hove into his dog sight, he announced me,— 

“Bow-wow-wow, bow-wow-wow,”—“Woman comes, up the 
hill.” 

By the time I got to him, he stopped barking. He has 1 
announced every arrival since. Hope he doesn’t keep it up all 
night. 


CADIZ TO LONDONDERRY, OHIO 

Tuesday , June 29 . 

This morning, before I left, the hotel man took me down 
in the basement to see his old-fashioned furniture. He has the 
most beautiful pieces I ever saw. Buys old pieces, and has 
a cabinet maker—an expert—fix them up; makes old pianos 
into the most beautiful desks and so on. 

This noon, asked two young women on a porch about getting 
dinner or lunch, and they said they didn’t know of any place. 
It began to rain while I talked to them, and as I stood there 
putting on my raincoat, “ma” came out, and I asked her where 
I could get lunch. She said: 

“Why yes; we’ll let you have it.” Wanted to know why I 
hadn’t “asked the girls.” I said nothing. 

Rained very hard. At several houses, women and men 
sitting on the porches, rubbered (that’s the right word) at me 
coming up the road—and the women went in out of sight as 
I got near! Did they fear I might ask to come in till the rain 
held up! Then it was fine for a couple of hours, when the 
rain began again,—and the women went in as I got near the 
houses. It was too noticeable and happened too often to be 
accidental. 

Started to go from Cadiz to Freeport, but changed off to 
the Piedmont road instead. The Piedmont Postmaster, who 
signed at 3 p.m., thanked me for coming in. How a little 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


63 


■courtesy like that heartens me! Went to the railroad station, 
intending to take off my shoes to empty the mud out; but there 
being only one little room, and some men in it, left the mud in. 

Went on to Smyrna. The rain poured down so hard that 
finally I walked up on the piazza of a house close to the 
street. After a while, the woman came out and wanted me to 
go inside; was very nice. I was too drippingly wet to go in, 
but stayed on the piazza till the rain slacked up. Smyrna is 
a R. F. D. route from Freeport. 

Hills not so long and steep to-day, as a rule. In the morn¬ 
ing, they were noticeably lower and slopier; then began to be 
higher to climb, but seemed not so far to go down. In one of 
the fields near the road, saw the largest band of sheep I’ve 
seen yet. 

The clayey mud on the roads went over my shoes as I 
walked, and guzzled in through the cut in the sole. Slow day; 
about 26 miles. 

A bridge half way between Smyrna and Londonderry is 
over a stream that looks like a small canal, with sandy banks, 
and winds like the Charles River in the Cambridge meadows. 

Came on to Londonderry—known as “Derry” to everyone 
in the neighboring towns. A woman runs the hotel here. 
My shoes had soaked in so much mud that I carried water into 
the back yard, to try to wash it out, and had a hard time to 
get the mud softened enough to scrape out of the left shoe; it 
had hardened in, packed tight, cement-like. 

A woman here asked me over and over again,— 

“Everuedit?” “Everuedit?” 

It was only after some minutes, when she changed it to, 

“You’ll rueit —you’ll rueit!” that I realized she was asking 
me if I had ever rued starting on the trip. I think she took 
pleasure in thinking that I would “rue” it before I got through. 

LONDONDERRY TO KIMBOLTON, OHIO 

Wednesday, June SO. 

This morning, my left shoe was so badly worn through that 
I tried to get a new pair. Couldn’t get them in town. Went to 
the shoemaker—or man that acts as the town shoemaker—and 
he tacked on a piece of leather,—how long will it last? 

Came through Antrim and North Salem into Kimbol-ton. 
I called it Kim-bolton at first, in asking the way here, and 
could hardly make people understand what I meant. 

The views from the hills were wider to-day—more exten- 


64 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

sive. There still seems to be more up hill than down. Instead 
of there being only thin rows of trees through the hollows here 
and there, the tops of some of the hills have trees on them. 

On one road, I came suddenly on a place where the water 
was across the road for about the length of a Washington city 
block. At this place, there were two roads and it was a ques¬ 
tion which one I should take; but going on the idea that the 
worst was probably the right one, I took the watery one. Stood 
looking at it for a while, then waded in. It was swirling 
through the fields, but there wasn’t much current in the road. 

I kept the middle of the road, and in the deepest part the water 
only just came to my knees. A little farther along, I waded 
through a much shorter piece of overflowed road, with watet 
not so deep. 

A few miles farther on, asked a man if I was on the right 
road to Kimbolton: 

“You can’t get there to-night—the criks are up.” 

I had visions of water three or four feet deep, but later 
found that when the water rises about 18 inches they consider 
the roads “impassable.” I asked how deep the water was, but 
he didn’t know. Farther along, asked a boy in a team. He 
didn’t know: 

“This crik is up, but the other mayn’t be.” 

More questioning brought out the fact that all the criks 
didn’t rise for every rain. They seem to be somewhat erratic 
about it. 

I went on, and found that the “other crik” was “up.’ y 
This time a little deeper,—over my knees. Kept my hand on 
the wire fence at the roadside, and waded. While slush- 
sloshing through, close to the fence, I wondered how much 
poison ivy I was walking on,—and still wonder. 

Came to the bridge over Mill Creek at the edge of Kim¬ 
bolton just as it got dark. When I got into what I thought was 
the outskirts of the town, asked a girl by the roadside for the! 
post office, which she said was closed; then for a hotel. 

“This is a hotel!” in disgusted surprise at my not knowing 
a hotel when I saw one. 

Asked the rates and were told that they were $1.00 for sup¬ 
per, room, and breakfast. Had a bum cold supper, but suppose 
I ought to have got here at meal time. 

Wallowed through red clay to-day that clings, and piles up 
on my shoes until they weigh pounds and pounds, and won’t 
shake off; has to be scraped or kicked off. 

Thought I had made only 18 miles, but they tell me it was 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


65 


24. Sand (made from mud squeezed dry after crawling into 
my shoes) has swollen my feet badly, especially the left one. 
Can’t get even my toes into the shoes I bought in Connellsville 
and had light soles put on in Pittsburg, which I have been carry¬ 
ing to wear after I get in at night from the day’s walk. 

I have often read in the newspapers about the Ohio “bot¬ 
toms”, but never realized what they were like. The hills are 
low ranges, and the “bottom” lands between them seem per¬ 
fectly flat 1 —some small and narrow, and some must be a mile 
or more wide. Fine looking farms all along. But it is very 
bad when the creeks rise. 

This year the rains have caused the streams and creeks 
to rise, and field after field is under water—just the tops of 
the corn showing above the water (the corn is not very high 
in this section yet). They tell me that a good deal of buck¬ 
wheat is also under water, but I saw only corn and potato 
fields flooded. If the flooding lasts for only a day or two, it 
doesn’t spoil the crops; but unless the water goes down in a 
few days, the corn is badly injured and the buckwheat spoiled. 
The flooding does not happen in the same section every year; 
hence the farmers keep on planting the “bottoms.” One creek 
may be overflowed, and another half a mile away, not rise very 
much. Apparently it is ideal farming land—only when the 
water rises. 

KIMBOLTON TO ADAMSVILLE, OHIO 

Thursday , July 1. 

This morning, when, after a cold breakfast, I asked the 
hotel lady (not the same one I asked last night) how much 
I owed her, she said: 

“I’ll charge you only a dollar.” 

Now, why did she want to give me the impression she was 
being good to me, when this was the regular rate there? 

Went to the Kimbolton Post Office at 7:45 a.m. 

Fine this morning after two days of rain. Climbed hills, 
and went down some. Followed a ridge two-thirds around a 
nice little valley that was flat, with hills enclosing it. At last 
got to Flatridge, and, in a little store, had lunch, a can of sal¬ 
mon, crackers, and two bottles of pop. 

One particularly long and quite steep down and then up 
hill between Flatridge and Otsego; but the up-hill was shaded 
nearly to the top. 

Got to Otsego at 1:45 p.m. While in the postoffice, it 


66 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


began to blow and thunder and lightning. Started on, but went 
into a store and got two glasses of milk and two slices of bread 
and butter, as an excuse for loafing there. Learned I had 
taken a long way round, by coming through Flatridge—thus, 
my map deceived me. 

The storeman told me there was a hotel in Adamsville; 
that, if I got there to-night, I would have walked “a good 24 
miles.” He said he was “going to put a piece in the County 
paper” about my walk; asked for some data, which I scribbled 
out for him. A young man sitting on a stool at the counter 
wanted to read it; but Mr. Storeman wasn't going to give away 
his “news” before the paper printed it! 

Through here no one talks of thunderstorms; they are 
“electric storms.” This electric storm to-day was some storm 
for a short time—rain, hail, thunder, lightning, wind. 

When the thunder died away, and the rain slackened, I 
came on to Adamsville. A woman runs the hotel. She came 
up to my room and talked for a long time. Told me of three 
people who had attempted to walk from Zanesville here, think¬ 
ing it was only a short distance; after walking till dark, reach¬ 
ed the hotel. 

I am so tired, I feel I was hardly properly pleasant to her 
while she talked. It seems I’ve traveled 25 miles to-day,—and 
sure am mud-covered. Shoes muddiy insidle, and feet are 
strange, white, puffy things, with corrugated soles. 

Expect to reach Columbus July 4th. 

On the road in Flatridge, I saw some fine thimbleberries, 
and picked some. As soon as they were well into my mouth 
and I had begun to enjoy the flavor, I saw the bush they came 
from was literally covered with poison ivy. I didn’t pick any 
more. 


ADAMSVILLE TO FRAZEYSBURG, OHIO 

Friday , July 2. 

Made only about 17 miles to-day, I think. Was told that 
there would be bad hills on my way, but there were not. Hills, 
like all things, depend on one’s viewpoint. Chief worriment to¬ 
day has been that the patch is nearly off the sole of my shoe. “If 
a dog hadn’t flees, he wouldn’t know he was a dog;” so if 
each day’s walk hadn’t its own worriment, I wouldn't know I 
was walking, perhaps. 

As I went along a road in one of the valleys,—steep bank 
down, and wooded, on my left,—I saw ahead some smoke 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


67 


drifting across the road. Tramps! That smoke looked like 
eats: would they take me for a fellow-tramp and let me sit in? 
It was after lunch time. Now that I haven’t been meeting 
tramps, I seem to have got over, in a measure, the dread of 
them I had at starting, and was rather curious to see how 
they might be lunching. 

When I got to the smoke, a man was at the bottom of the 
bank, shelling what looked like great big clams—three or four 
times as big as the Eastern clams, and darker shells—and 
tossing the shells on to a rough wooden platform. The smoke 
was from a wood fire under a big flat tin place, where the clams, 
covered over, were steaming. After watching him a minute 
(being on the bank above him, he didn’t see me till I spoke), 
I asked what they were. 

“Mussels.” 

Then I wanted to know if people ate them. 

“Some people have eaten them, but I wouldn’t want to.” 

After talking a few minutes: 

“Come down and I’ll show you how I catch them.” 

The thick vines and bushes on the bank looked rather cree¬ 
py, so I asked if he would warrant there were no snakes in them. 
He pointed out a sandy place on the bank, farther along, 
where I could get down. I went scrambling down the bank. 
(How shocked Aunt Whoeveritis that gives advice, in the col¬ 
umns of a certain magazine, to lone females would have been!) 

It was only a few yards to the river,—theTuscarawa,— 
where his boat was, though I hadn’t seen the water because the 
trees and bushes were so thick. The river is now unusually 
high, on account of the rains, the water very brown with the 
mud. Dead branches and parts of trees were driving down it. 
He explained his method of catching mussels. 

On each side of the boat are two uprights, notched at the 
top, some distance apart. On these his nets, when not in use, 
rest. The nets are frames with pronged hooks attached by 
short cords, perhaps a couple feet long. The hooks are three 
or four inches long, just bent wires for the prongs. The mus¬ 
sels lie on the bottom of the river, facing upstream, “with! 
mouths open.” The frames drag along, and the hooks catch 
in the open shells. When he raises a frame, he supports it on 
the uprights, and takes off the mussels. Says he has had as 
many as a hundred at a time caught by the hooks on one frame, 
—so heavy he could hardly lift it. There is always more or 
less current in the river, and the motive power for the boat i 3 
supplied by the river itself. The boat (a flat-bottomed one) 


68 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

is placed facing downstream, and the frame covered with heavy 
canvas is put in the water, across the bow of the boat. The 
water running against this canvas carries the boat along. 

After explaining all this, he said he had to go back to his 
fire or it would go out. And, in the most offhand way, he 
took the cover off his dinner pail, saying he had had his lunch, 
but that there was bread and butter and liver and some pre¬ 
serves, if I cared for it. The way he said it, and then walked 1 
away, didn’t give me a chance to refuse. My impulse was not 
to take it. But it occured to me that some time one really 
needing food might come along, and if I refused his offer, he 
might not make a similar one to them. Everything was neat 
and inviting. The sandwiches he had not eaten had not appar¬ 
ently been touched. So I sat down and ate and drank some 
coffee. When I went back to where he was shelling mussels, 
and said I had taken some coffee: 

“Why, that’s what I meant you to do.” 

The mussels are steamed, just like we steam clams, to 
make the shells open. The mussel is thrown away; while the 
shells are used to make buttons. The shells vary in color, 
the purplish ones being thrown away. The cheap “pearl” but¬ 
tons, are, he said, made out of mussel shells. A Government 
man came along one year, and picked out about twenty kinds, 
naming them, —“Niggers,” “Black-headed niggers,” “Grand¬ 
mas,” etc. 

The mussel man told me about a man and woman that 
passed where another mussel man was working, and asked if 
the mussels were good to eat, and being very hungry, stopped 
and ate them. I suppose when I asked if they were good to eat, 
as I stood on the bank, he thought I was hungry and thinking 
of eating them; and that’s why he invited me down the bank 
“to see how he caught them,” so as to give me some lunch. 

It writing it, this becomes merely a kindly act; I can’t 
get into words the courtesy of the man in doing it. 

This same river, the Tuscarawa, I crossed! going into 
Dresden, by a high bridge “nearly 700 feet long,” of which 
Dresden is very proud. 

At Dresden, took a man’s advice to go to Newark by way 
of Frazeysburg. Reached Frazeysburg at 5 p.m. It is a nice 
town, with nice looking houses, and several hotels (or boarding 
houses). At one of these, a woman stood in the doorway. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


69 


I walked up on the porch, and this woman stood looking me 
over, with: 

“What is it?” 

“Isn’t this a hotel?” 

“Yes-s-s-s-s,” doubtfully, with a rising inflection. 

“What are your rates?” I now ask the rates in advance— 
not that I could or would object,— but have learned that it 
is wise to do so; and probably shall be still more “wised up” 
before reaching the Pacific Coast. 

“Fifty cents for a bed; 35 cents for meals.”' 

I went to go in the door where we were standing. 

“Go in the other door!” Strange, how a tone can make 
a sentence a request or an order. This was an order; and I 
thereupon did not go in, and decided if there was another 
hotel I should not stay there. So I inquired for the post office, 
and went along to it. Postmaster signed at 5 p.m. 

There was a hotel opposite the post office, and I came here. 
The price here is “Thirty-five cents a round,”—which means 
35 cents for a room and 35 cents for each meal. They don*t| 
recognize the word “room”; always speak of “bed”. Some 
time back, the word “room” changed to the term “bed”, but this 
is the first place I have heard so much “a round”, to denote 
room, or meal. I am told that at the first place where I 
stopped they never ask more than 35 cents for “a bed”. Did 
I look like a millionaire, or a tramp that they didn’t want toi 
shelter, that they raised the price 15 cents for me? I must 
have got to look bumkum!—So soon! 

Although past suppertime, the woman at this hotel got 
me supper. 

Awful tired—just sleepy tired. Feet still puffed up, and 
the soles look as if powder had been shot into them—the sand 
has ground into the skin. 

A man in Dresden, in asking about my route, told me I 
had picked out the wrong route, and asked how I had got so 
far out of my way! They don’t understand that a woman 
walking alone must pick a route through towns that offer a 
prospect of hotels to stay at: for the women along the road 
are not always willing to sell me a lunch, much less to let me 
stay over night. If it were two or three women together, walk¬ 
ing, perhaps they would be more considerate. 

In Dresden, also, I was given much good advice about 
practicing “Weston’s step” as I went along. This man didn’t 
see that a walk that might be easiest and quickest for Weston 
might be almost impossible for someone else. 


70 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

FRAZEYSBURG TO KIRKERSVILLE, OHIO 

Saturady, July 3. 

This morning, the proprietress of the hotel went out and 
bought a steak for my breakfast,—an unusual kindness! 

Left Frazeysburg at 6:35 a.m. A winding road, gener¬ 
ally level, between there and Hanover. Got to the latter place 
(between 9 and 10 miles from Frazeysburg) at 10 a.m. 

Just out of Hanover, I met my second tramp. I had 
met men on the doubtful list—they might have been tramps, or 
might not. But this little old man was a typical tramp, a stick 
over his shoulder, a little bundle on the end of the stick. He 
said something evidently a question; sounded like a foreign 
tongue to me. Supposing he wanted to know how far it was to a 
town,—probably with an eye, or stomach, breakfast-inclined,— 
I said,” 

“Hanover, a mile.” 

It meant nothing to him. I tried again: 

“Hanover—one mile,” (holding up one finger). 

That was it: he nodded and grunted. Then he looked down 
at the road,—a “rock road,” as they call it through here, and 
very hard to walk on, though a good auto road,—shook his 
head, patted his knee, limped a few steps, shook his head again, 
and then nodded at my feet. Translating this to mean it was 
bad walking for him because his knee was lame, and that 
he wanted to know how my feet stood it, I nodded emphatically, 
shook my head at the roadbed, and said, “Awful hard!”—prob¬ 
ably gibberish to him. But he gurgled something else; and 
then, as we in agreement in our opinion of the road, we nodded 
good-by to each other. He limped toward Hanover, and break¬ 
fast (I hope); while I plodded on toward Newark. 

Got into Newark, which is quite a little city (8 miles from 
Hanover) at 12:50 p.m. Was directed to a boarding-house; 
dinner was over, but the woman gave me a lunch. A man at 
this house said I had taken the very best and most direct roads 
west from Pittsburg, to get to Columbus. And yesterday a 
man said I was “off the route!” 

Before I stopped for dinner, a heavy thunder shower 
came up. Very wet while eating—water squeezling in my 
shoes, and dripping off my raincoat on to the floor. The mist 
of the rain seemed to have got into my eyes; there was a map 
on the wall, and I couldn’t see a name or line on it. 

The rain was practically over before I went on. Got to 
the Newark Post Office at 2:35 p.m. Assistant Postmaster 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


71 


said it was 6 miles to Granville (northwest), and 9 miles to 
Hebron (southwest from Newark), Hebron being one mile near¬ 
er Columbus than Granville. I was considering whether not hav¬ 
ing to walk that extra mile to-morrow might not be worth some¬ 
thing should I wake up very tired, when a woman advised me 
to go to Granville,— 

“Because Granville has such fine hotels, compared to 
Hebron.” 

Fine hotels! and me with less than $2.00, and all day to¬ 
morrow to walk before I reach Columbus and money. I took 
the road to Hebron. 

Left Newark at 3:15. A comparatively straight and level 
nine miles alongside an old canal, in which were growing 
beautiful white water lilies in bloom. But how I should hate 
to take that walk after dark—a most lonesome road. 

I got along so fast that I took another look at my map to 
see if there was any place nearer Columbus than Hebron that 
I might reach to-day. The next little dot was Kirkersville. 
While resting at the side of the road for a few minutes, before 
I got to Hebron, I asked a man that drove past in a buggy, 
if there was a hotel in Kirkersville. 

“Yeh, but there’s two hotels at Hebron.” 

Did I look as if I need two hotels! I’m pretty glad to get 

one. 

At Hebron (I had been traveling almost south from New¬ 
ark), I turned west on the level pike, and rushed. Left Heb-J 
ron at 6:30, late to start on a new lap, but Kirkersville, six) 
miles ahead, was directly on the Columbus road. 

Reached Kirkersville (just across a bridge), over a muddy 
road, at 8:10—some walking those six miles at the end of a 
long day’s walk. 

Am at a pretty hotel, run by a pleasant young woman, 
who was sympathetic over my being so wet and muddy, but 
simply ignored, smilingly, my wanting supper: 

“Too late for supper.” That was all there wja^ to it., 
Why, indeed, should a woman put herself out to get supper for 
a person that was foolish enough to arrive too late for the 
regular meal! So I will go supperless to bed. 

To-day was cool; rained much of the time, and the roads 
generally were level and straight. Though I made a short 
distance yesterday, today made the longest distance of any one 
day so far,—over 32 miles, and a little extra should be allowed 
for what windings and curves there were in the roads. 

These desperate rushes at the end of the day, to get to 


72 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


my stopping-place before dark! I rush along, taking little 
short gasps for breath; and when the town is at the top of an 
up-hill, the pounding in my ears is as bad as when climbing) 
mountains. And, when I beat the darkness to it, the relief— 
haha! it is to laugh. 

KIRKERSVILLE TO COLUMBUS, OHIO 

Sunday, July 4. 

Got away from Kirkersville rather late, about 9 a.m. 
Straight pike, merely enough rise in the distance to cut off the 
horizon. The little villages are built on the pike, which in most 
cases is almost the only street in the village. 

At Reynoldsburg, a pike town with oiled pike, stopped for 
dinner, and also had a plain soda (getting reckless so near 
Columbus and money). City-appearing young men running 
the'hotel. A couple of miles farther along, got two glasses 
of milk in a little store, and loafed there till 4:20, because it was 
so very hot. The woman who runs the store, and a friend of 
hers who came in, wanted to give me postcards to send back to 
them when I get to San Francisco. People don’t understand 
that every card even adds weight. 

The old pike along my walk to-day has been dug away to 
fill up the new pike. Thought the place where the old pike 
used to be, was an old canal filled in, till some one told me. 

As I neared Columbus, a man sitting by the street railway 
with a red lantern, in talking of walking, told me to rub my 
feet with alcohol if they ached from walking. After getting 
into Columbus, I tried to get alcohol at several drug stores, but 
there is a law against selling alcohol on Sundays. One clerk 
advised buying spirits of camphor (which can be sold on Sun¬ 
day, though it is 87 or 89 per cent alcohol), so I got that. 

Poured rain in torrents from the time I was within four 
miles of Columbus, till I got here, a dripping creature. 

Heavy thunder and blinding flashes of lightning. 

Got very wet—but a clean wet. It rained such torrents 
that it has washed the mud entirely out of my skirt and eff my 
shoes. The dust had settled badly in my skirt—and now it’s 
perfectly clean. This is the fourth day that some time during 
the day it has rained buckets of water. 

The Y. W. C. A. took me in out of the rain, and, not having 
a room, gave me the typewriting room to sleep in. Put in a cot 
for me, and some of the women loaned extra bedclothes they 
had in their rooms. The young woman who seems to be matron 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


73 


is entirely different from the self-satisfied I-must-uphold-my- 
dignity kind of elderly women usually in charge of these places! 

After I got my wet clothes off and hung around on the 
backs of chairs to dry, some one rapped on the door and said 
that a woman wanted to talk to me. Of course, I said, 

“To-morrow.” 

But word came back that the woman was going away to¬ 
morrow and wanted to have a little talk to-night and would 
come in. My soaking and dripping things looked too sad; so, 
after half refusing, I yielded; put on my wet sneakers and my 
raincoat, and went out into the hall, where four or five women 
sat waiting for me. 

They talked and I talked,—they, comfortable and dry; I, 
cold and wretched. I told of my Hanover tramp, and one of 
them said she would put up her head and walk past any tramp 
that attempted to speak to her. Three weeks ago, those were 
my sentiments, but now—while talking, I realized that my 
feelings were more akin to a tramp’s than to these women’s. 

Finally, their interest (and perhaps a little curiosity) be¬ 
ing satisfied, I got back here to my room. 

Before getting to Columbus, I passed the “State Service 
Institution”—electric stop there was labeled “State Farm.” 
One old man, cutting grass by the roadside, never raised his 
head—poor old man, perhaps he was ashamed of being in the 
State Farm. Another, white-bearded, greeted me kindly from 
his seat on a bench near the road. While I was feeling sorry 
for them, maybe he was feeling sorry for the lone woman who 
was tramping the roads in the blazing sun. Anyway, I hope 
he was contrasting his comfortable place on his bench with my 
dusty walk; perhaps comparison with some one he thought was 
worse off than himself would comfort him. Everything is com¬ 
parative, anyway, both happiness and misery. 

No one asked me to ride to-day. Since I left the Potomac 
Canal, every day either automobile or team has offered me a 
ride, my refusal always causing surprise. Made about 21 
miles; though I suspect this is one of the instances where the 
21 extended to the limits of the city only, and didn’t count in 
the miles from the limits to the heart of the city. 

Maybe I ought not to walk on a Sunday, especially a holi¬ 
day. But Columbus spelled money and rest. Have shocked 
the good people along the way by admitting I walk on Sundays; 
guess some of them think there is some dire punishment in 
store for me on desert or mountain. But old Dame Nature 
keeps everything a-growing Sundays same as other days; and 


74 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

the sun shines on Sundays, and runs around just as fast as 
ever; and it rains sometimes on Sundays—particularly does 
it rain, as I have cause to know. 

COLUMBUS, OHIO 


Monday , July 5. 

Yesterday being Sunday and the Fourth, to-day is a holi¬ 
day. Got mail this morning. Must have new shoes, so shall 
stay over to get them to-morrow, when the stores will be open. 

Went to the Y. W. C. A. building across the street from 
here, where they feed the many, many girls who board with 
the organization. It is on the cafeteria plan. At the first 
counter, was asked: 

“Toast or bread.” 

“Toast, please.” Two slices of toast I got, evidently toast¬ 
ed long before, because they were very hard. Went back and 
asked for bread: 

“You had toast!” in a tone of indignant protest. I explained 
the hardness of the toast; and the girl turned, very slowly, and 
cut me bread. A girl just back of me encouraged me in my re¬ 
bellion : 

“They have to give you bread!” 

So they gave me bread, and what else went for a break¬ 
fast; and I got up and wandered out, wondering how the young 
girls did a morning’s work in offices and stores on such a 
meagre breakfast. 

Columbus (my first State capital) seems small to what 
I had thought of its being. Houses with yards, and trees in 
the yards, come right down into the centre of the city, it seems. 
The Capitol is here, surrounded, as all properly built capitols 
are, with a park, in which are the usual semi-tame gray squir¬ 
rels of all city parks. Then there is Ohio State University. 

From the looks of the sky, it is going to rain again to-day, 
and I don’t want to get my nice clean dress wet again until it 
is necessary, so shall stay indoors. 


Tuesday, July 6. 

Stayed in Columbus again to-day,—decided to take another 
holiday, since I could not get away early on account of having 
to shop. The Y. W. C. A. let me use one of their typewriters, 
so I have got off letters, and posted D. B’s. 

At 9:30 the Assistant Postmaster signed my slip. Then, I 
started out to shop. Asked several for a “department store,” 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


T5 


and they didn’t seem to know what I meant. Doesn’t Colum¬ 
bus have them, or were the people I inquired of hyphenated 
Americans and didn’t understand me? Among other things, 
I got two pair of sneakers, one to wear and one to carry. 
Cashed my P. O. order; spent $7 of it shopping, and ate up 
$3.30 of it. The $35 balance left I have had changed into $5 
gold pieces,—easier to carry, and can’t get washed into pulp 
by the thunderstorms or if I fall into a stream. 

I thought Columbus was small, but it is bigger than it 
looked to me at first. Went through the State House, saw the 
Athletic Club and the .Court House. Very tired tonight. 

Before getting here, one day—don’t remember which—I 
passed a cemetery where many of the gravestones were slant¬ 
ing as if something had almost upset them—some of the Hew* 
stones, as well as the older ones. 

The apparently short distances I cover some days is often 
only apparently short: the hills and turns in the Eastern Ohio 
roads are many. Then, too, I am almost sure that at junctions 
I sometimes take the wrong turn: a person tells me to turn left 
at the next fork, meaning his own left hand; and I turn to my 
left. While talking facing each other, his left is my right— 
which neither of us would think of. 

I am through with the Ohio “bottoms” now, I think. The 
“national pike” (a raised road—that is, filled in to make it a 
little higher than the fields) runs from here through St. Louis. 
I want to skip St. Louis itself if I can without losing time, be¬ 
cause I do not like travelling on foot through paved cities. To 
strike pavements after a hot day's tramp is just like walking 
on exposed nerves on the soles of my feet. | 

An Eastern farmer would be delighted with the level farm¬ 
ing lands of Central Ohio. But to see acres and acres flooded 
looks sad. June is usually a very hot month through here: but 
this year it has rained so much that the farmers are groaning. 

Am giving Greenfield, Indiana, as my next Post Office 
address. 

Although Eastern time changes to Central time at Pitts¬ 
burg, Pa., the people through the country refuse to recognize 
such arbitrary rules. They go by “sun time”, and scoff at a 
time established by rule. 

“What can be so correct as sun time?” they ask- “When 
the sun is directly overhead, it is always the exact middle of 
the day, or 12 o’clock.” Their amusement at man-made time 
is real. They condescend to take trains by this time, if they 
ever need to take a train, but— 


76 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


“Sun time is the only correct time.” 

I used to look at my little Ingersoll sheepishly and under 
cover. 

The very pleasant young woman in charge of the Y. W. C. 
A. here, so unlike the usual type of “matron,” I learn is merely 
acting matron while the real one is away for a short time. 

COLUMBUS TO WEST JEFFERSON, OHIO 

Wednesday , July 7. 

A short day: only about 17 miles. It did not rain torrents 
on me, as it did some time of each of the last four days going 
into Columbus, but has been exhaustingly hot. 

It was past 9 o’clock when I left Columbus this morning, 
after going to the Ppst Office. Had a not good breakfast in a 
restaurant. 

Am told that West Broad Street qarries out of Columbus, 
the “pike” that East Main Street fetches into the city. Main 
and Broad Streets are parallel, some four blocks apart,—and 
Columbus blocks are long. 

On West Broad Street wires are strung across the street 
here and there, with squares hanging from them and white 
crosses on the squares. I asked the ticket man in the prettily 
furnished little railroad station, when I went into it, in passing, 
about the crosses. He said they indicated street-car crossings. 
I noticed them on Broad Street only, and for a short distance 
—perhaps half a mile. There are also curved iron frameworks 
across the street, almost as high up as the telephone wires, 
and a couple of feet wide; station man didn’t remember having 
seen them, and didn’t know what they were for. Some one else 
said they were for street lighting. I hadn’t noticed them 
lighted up—probably because I stayed in the Y. W. C. A. build¬ 
ing evenings. 

After a few miles, passed the grounds and buildings of 
the Ohio State Home for the Feeble-minded; and, on the 
opposite side of Broad Street, the State Insane Asylum. A 
little farming is done at both places; and the grounds are, of 
course beautiful. The asylum had no high fence or wall: 
many men were on the grounds, but none near the road. I 
was glad of that. When leaving on this tramp, I had intended 
to avoid, if possible, passing any of these institutions. After 
learning what the buildings were, I saw, in the few men walk¬ 
ing along the street, near them, escaped inmates. Of cour s e, 
I knew better. But the young man ahead of me who stooped 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


77 


several times and picked up a scrap of paper, I knew was one. 
Now, I know he must have been simply some one looking for 
something he had lost on the street. Then, in a little store 
where I stopped to get a glass of milk—really to rest my 
tootsies—an odd-looking man got some pop and drank it, and I 
imagined another escaped inmate in him. 

In this little store I learned I had another mile and a 
half of stone sidewalk to tramp. And city sidewalk is hard 
on the feet! 

The road is a straight pike west, after the hill on which 
were the State buildings, and that wasn’t much of a hill. On 
the right, separated by weeds from the wagon road, is the 
electric railroad track (out of town electric railways have all 
been single track through Ohio so far), with once in a great 
while a car passing. Houses quite far apart, but well within 
sight of one another—each house could see several others. 
The whole section is practically flat. Fine looking farms, 
though the word “farm” to me always has some connotation 
of rises and slopes—but none here. 

After a few hours, I began to ask about the next post 
office. First man I asked didn’t know (which amused him 
himself greatly), but said, “This old man coming up might 
know.” Old-man-coming-up said the post office was at Alton, 
1% miles farther. He was right on the distance to Alton, but 
it had no post office; though the Altonites speak of one of the 
stores as the Post Office. Perhaps stamps are sold there, or 
perhaps it used to be a post office before the R. F. D. got to 
work. I got a glass of sarsaparilla there, and learned that 
there was nowhere in town to get any lunch or dinner—it was 
1:30 p.m. then. 

By this time, my feet felt so bad that I went outside back 
of one of the houses, and put some adhesive tape across the 
top of each foot. I found a thick bunch at the bottom of the 
tongue of each shoe, and concluded that was part of the trouble. 
The tape did help some, I think. In Columbus, when I bought 
my shoes my feet were still swollen, though a pair of sneakers 
I tried on (the same size as the last I had bought) seemed to 
fit. I took them, and another pair, half n size larger, to allow 
for more swelling. This morning put on the smaller pair; 
they felt fine—for about two miles. By that time, they were 
cramping my feet to death: too short as well as too tight. 
After I got beyond ,the “corporation limits” (these Ohio cities 
put up big “Corporation limits” signs) I sat on the side porch 
of an empty house and put on the larger pair, but in a few 


78 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


minutes they felt as short and tight as the others. At this 
house I almost left my sweater; looking back—luckily—when I 
got to the gate, it was on the steps. After getting to West 
Jefferson to-night, I bought a pair a whole size larger than I 
ever bought before, and the widest I could get: in ^ few min¬ 
utes they, too, felt ,short and squeezed my feet (I had put them 
on in the store). Then, and only then, I realized that the 
trouble was not shoes, but a pair of too short new stockings. 

Want of lunch helped to make me travel slow, as it has 
every day I have gone past lunch time without food. Like 
the boy’s horses, I get weak if I go past feeding-time. 

By and by came to ,a slight, very slight, down hill. On the 
left were white tents, and horses feeding under the trees. It 
wasn’t gipsies. A United States Flag flying. The tents were 
the “Recreation Camp” of Columbus, some girls told me, who 
came over to ask me where the camp was, after I had stopped, 
a little farther along, to rest under a tree off the road—first 
chance I had had to get off the pike under a tree to-day. 

Just beyond my rest-tree (on the ground round and cover¬ 
ing the trunk of which there was much poison ivy), the wagon 
road turns a little to the left and goes over a long bridge. 
The electrics cross the stream on a trestle of their own, at the 
side of and much higher than the roadway. 

While I sat under this tree, two wagons went toward Col¬ 
umbus, gipsy wagons. I never doubted their being gipsies till 
this moment, when ,1 went to write that they were—now I 
wonder why! 

Got to West Jefferson (which, like Reynoldsburg, oils 
its streets) a little before 5 o’clock. Asked for a store where 
I could buy shoes, and learned that “there are four department 
stores in town.” Where does the line between village general 
merchandise stores and department stores come? 

After getting my big sneakers, went down a side street 
to the shoemaker’s to have heels put on. At his suggestion, 
had rubber heels instead of leather. Left my smallest pair 
of sneakers there, as I don’t want to carry round three pairs 
of shoes with me. His American independence refused to 
accept a practically new pair of shoes from me, so he took 
them and charged me only 25 cents for the rubber heels. He 
worked slow, but did a correspondingly good job in putting 
the heels on. It might seem that there isn’t much difference 
in the way a pair of rubber heels could be put on, but there is. 
These rubber soled canvas shoes have again become'“sneakers”; 
through one zone of the country, they didn’t recognize the word; 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


79 


called them “tennis shoes”. While sitting in the shoe-shop, 
my eyes went back on me just as they did in Newark—I couldn't 
seem to see to read the newspaper they handed me. That time 
I thought it was the mist from the rain; this time, it must 
have been the dust, as there has been no rain to-day. 

The shoemaker said the next town was seven miles away; 
the storekeeper had told me five miles. The shoemaker's mile¬ 
age was probably walking miles; the storekeeper's, “airline” 
miles. My feet, I knew, wouldn't take me either five or seven 
miles before dark, after supper; and I must eat before travel¬ 
ling on. 

Came back to a hotel I had already passed, stopping at 
the post office on the way, at 6:25, when postmaster signed 
my slip. The Post Office is in the town hall, which looks like 
a Presbyterian Church—or like the brewery in Roxbury, Mass., 
that as a child I always supposed was a Presbyterian Church. 

Just before West Jefferson, I passed through a long cov¬ 
ered bridge. Coming through on the wrong side—the left—I 
picked up a gold cuff button; shall carry it for good luck. 

Supper fairly good: beef loaf, fried potatoes (of course, 
and of course greasy), and fried egg (oh, lord!). To offset 
the potatoes and egg, the rest was good, and they had real 
water! Driven-well water—and iced, too! The hotel man 
is very proud of having driven-well water, and justly. It is 
the first really water I have had for ages. On this walk, I 
have drank rain water (people frankly said that was their 
drinking water), cistern water, filtered rain water, and sam¬ 
pled all kinds of well water. 

Went down stairs to get some drinking water for the 
night, (one has to be one’s own bellboy in these hotels), and 
saw in the store connected with and under the hotel, several 
drop-your-money-and-see-what-you’ll-get machines: a penny, 
one, a five-center, and a ten-center. I dropped in a penny, 
pulled the handle, and won five-cents' worth. A winner is 
supposed to take his winnings in “trade”—either candy or gum, 
they told me. Tried again,—ten cents worth: greenhorn's 
luck. Altogether wasted eight pennies, and got 20 cents' 
worth of winnings. Ate a little candy (don't dare eat much 
for fear of thirst), took some gum, and gave the rest to a small 
boy—much to his grinning surprise! Saw one young man drop 
40 cents into the ten-center, and get nothing. 

When I came upstairs (after dark by that time), I looked 
at the bed, and at first thought it had been slept in. The 
lower sheet had some odd wrinkles in it; but as it is new— 


80 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

still has the label on it—have concluded the wrinkles were made 
in the store. Experience has bred suspicions in that line. 

The shoemaker and his wife were most interesting. He, 
a thin little man with thin gray chin-beard and mustache, she 
short and stout. They were reading the Columbus paper when 
I interrupted; she smoking a very old-looking, small bowled 
pipe, the bowl carved. She said she was interested in a story 
that was running in the paper. Talked of the war and the 
possibility of the United States getting into it. Most of the 
people through the country I have talked to, have a mighty 
keen sense of these things and of politics in general. Such 
a difference between them—native Americans—and the hy¬ 
phenated, naturalized, foreigners! This couple were parti¬ 
cularly interesting. The wife said it was several days since 
she had been up on the main streets of the town (their house 
is perhaps a hundred yards from the main street), and four 
months since she had been in Columbus. When she finished 
the pipeful she was smoking, she knocked the ashes out against 
the stove, putting the pipe on the bottom rim of the stove. 
When I came away, she was filling it for another smoke, saying 
she always had to look for it, as she never remembered where 
she left it. Her first husband was killed in the Civil War. 
They told me of a Confederate Cemetery just outside of Col¬ 
umbus that I had missed seeing. The shoemaker seemed to* 
take it for granted I had missed it —‘‘most people dio,”—it be¬ 
ing a Confederate Cemetery, was implied. I got the impression 
though I don’t know why, that her first husband was in the 
Northern Army, and that this one is a Southerner. 

At one store where I stopped to-day, the woman said, with 
a contemptuous glance at my black bag: 

“I’d rather work in someone’s kitchen than solicit!” 

Here in Ohio they use the terms, “solicitor” and “solicit¬ 
ing,” not “agent” and canvassing.” I didn’t take the trouble 
to tell her I am not selling anything, but am collecting impres¬ 
sions. 

Since leaving the Potomac canal, I think this is only the 
second day that no one has asked me to ride. The other time 
was my last day’s walk into Columbus. When I am very 
tired, especially late in the afternoon, it is an added annoyance 
to have to stop and explain why I won’t ride. 

My feet are very much swollen all over, and perfectly 
hard—and of course aching. When I cross the floor, I walk 
on my heels as well as I can, and even then it seem® as if my 
feet must burst with my weight, the skin is drawn so tightly 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


81 


over them. My throat is a bit sore to-night, but it’s surely 
too late for that ivy poison on the Flatridge thimibleberries 
to take effect; guess I have escaped that. 

Saw several of the red-headed, black-winged, white-breasted 
woodpeckers to-day. Not nearly so brilliant as they were in 
Maryland, where I saw birds colored like these; there, the 
heads are a most brilliant scarlet. In Maryland I saw also 
an odd, frowsy, brown woodpecker, with rough head, and tail 
dropping at an angle,—an uncouth brown bird. In one place, 
saw the very tiniest grown-up gray-brown birds that I ever saw, 
except humming-birds. The birds seem to prefer to be near 
the towns. 

In Eastern Ohio, I think it was, a very small brown rabbit 
ran across the road ahead of me. There were also grayish 
rabbits with brown heads and white tails—apparently the 
grown-ups of the brown rabbits I have been seeing. 

In one “hotel” where I stayed, they gave me one sheet 
only; I used the white spread, which seemed clean, for the other. 

(These things are coming to me to-night—perhaps because 
I stopped early; and perhaps because I didn’t remember it was 
night, and drank coffee for supper.) 

Thundering and raining now; glad I’m under cover. 

There’s a flea in this room—or else an ant got in his work 
to-day, or is it poison ivy? The “poison oak” of the South and 
West is “poison ivy” in the Northeast and East Middle-West. 

I am being continually warned of the Kansas cyclones, and, 
should I escape those, of the dangers of the Rockies,—wild 
animals, and snow, and no place to stay nights! B-r-r-r-r-r! 

WEST JEFFERSON TO SPRINGFIELD, OHIO 

Thursday , July 8. 

When I came downstairs this morning, saw they had moved 
the in-the-slot machine to the shelf back of the counter. Didn’t 
offer to move it front where I could try my luck again when I 
spoke of it. 

Left at 7:45, after unsatisfactory breakfast. Probably the 
food is all right, if one is educated up to it; but I am not used 
to so much fat on everything,—on meat, potatoes, and egg. 

Went west along the pike to where another road left the 
one the electrics were on. The other road being marked* 
“Springfield,” I took it. It ran along beside, and lower than, 
the steam railroad. When it seemed to be getting too far away 
from the main wagon road, I left it and crossed to the latter: 


82 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

across a wet pasture-field (keeping close to a fence) and a corn¬ 
field. A brook ran through the cornfield, and this I followed 
out to the electric car line. Got my feet wet and muddy, and 
had to climb a rabb,it-wire fence that had a strand of barbed 
wire on the top. Tore my stocking and got a bad barbed-wire 
scratch, which is inflamed to-night and I have comforted with 
peroxide (a small bottle of which, together with camphor, I 
have been carrying since Columbus). A cemetery opposite 
this field offering a chance to sit down, I went in and cleaned 
the thick mud off my shoes there. 

Have followed the pike all day. Very straight. Could 
see for miles and miles ahead and back of me at times, till an 
apparent rise would cut off the road. On all other sides the 
horizon has been bounded by trees. Every house has trees 
around it, and single trees are scattered over the fields and 
little clumps of groves here and there. Country very flat. Am 
back on the old National Pike between Washington and St. 
Louis again. To-day passed two of what were evidently the 
original brick inns on the pike. Somehow, I never see Wash¬ 
ington or Webster or Clay arriving in the day time; but always 
toward evening they come in their knee-breeches and usually 
on horseback—and how the post-boys run to take their horses! 

This morning, passed a young farmer sitting on the top 
of a rail fence; after I got by, he walked up the pike back of 
me (I never make the mistake of calling it a “road” now). I 
was walking reasonably fast, and didn’t know he was trying to 
overtake me till he did. Asked (after a little talk) if I knew 
of a housework girl he could get—his wife had to have some 
“help” with the house and children. He had been a miner, “away 
East,” but quit when he saw a man get killed in one of the 
mines by an accident. Said he would let me have ten cents 
to ride, as he hated to see a woman walking the pike. Presently 
it began to rain, and he, having no coat on, ran for cover. 

At noon, asked a man if there was a hotel near: 

“Over the rise.” 

Over the rise, there was no sign of a hotel, buit a second 
rise showed up. He, being higher than I, could probably see 
that second rise, and referred to it. Over the second rise, 
and saw nothing like a town or hotel, though four loose horses 
were feeding on the side of the road, two men walking toward 
me, and, farther along, a dog and three houses, and two more 
men. As the first two men passed, I asked if there was a town 
near: 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


sa 


“Town's there!” said one, in surprise. Then I saw that 
the few houses bunched along the pike was a town. 

In Summerford, got lunch at the hotel. The woman at 
first was grouchy because it was after dinner-time, but put 
some food on the table for me and for a man who also happened 
in late. 

At South Vienna had my slip signed at the post office at 
4:02 p.m., and there the postmaster said it was 11 miles to 
Springfield; the signboard said 10, probably “airline” miles 
again. In a little village between South Vienna and Spring- 
field, I asked about supper, and was sent to a house where a 
nice little elderly woman let me have it. This nice little woman 
when she heard where I was bound for, shook her little head: 

“It’s a long, long way to Tipperary.” 

Left there at 6:40, and hurried on. Just outside the 
Springfield corporation limits, on a little rise, is the “District 
Tuberculosis Hospital.” Electric lights begin at the corpor¬ 
ation limits, which I reached in the dusk. Came to the stone 
sidewalks (or are they cement?) and walked and walked. A 
woman told me it was two miles to the centre of the town,— 

“At least, it’s twenty-one blocks, and twelve blocks make 
a mile.” She sent me up to the next street, saying it was “the 
logical street to walk into town on.” Now, why? 

Finally, got within sight of the electric signs, and then 
near them, when I asked a woman sitting on a piazza for the 
Y. W. C. A.—and it was right there! A nice looking building, 
set back from the street. Y. W. C. A. woman asked me to 
pay in advance, excusing it by saying that in the morning there 
would be no one in the office when I went out. I’ll give her 
the benefit of the doubt, as I had told her I wanted to get away 
early. 

Springfield is 45 railroad miles from Columbus. Made 29 
miles to-day. 

SPRINGFIELD TO VANDALIA, OHIO 

Friday , July 9. 

Left Springfield at 8:45. Finding my shoelaces were tied 
too tight, went into the railroad station to fix them. Asked 
woman for the women’s room, as I didn’t see it. She said: 

“There’s a room, but there’s no mirror in it.” 

Did I look like a person searching for a mirror, —or that 
needed one? Probably the latter! 

After two miles of paved sidewalks and road, got on the 


84 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

pike—hard walking. Pike was little rises and hollows to-day; 
couldn’t see so far ahead. Fine day. M^ade only about 22 

miles. . 

Passed through the second, bridge out of Springfield' 
(covered bridge, long and narrow), and sat down to rest at the 
far end, where the bridge cast a little shade. It occured to me 
that horses coming through and suddenly seeing me might be 
frightened, so crawled under the fence-bar, where one tree gave 
a little shade. I had left my little black bag on the road side 
of the fence, but thinking it might frighten the horses, reached 
out and brought it through the fence. 

The field sloped steeply up to the road, and I was sitting 
at the top of a steep, sloping bank. In a moment, my bag 
started down the bank and jumped off a big stone. Going 
down to the big stone, I saw my bag down below, resting in a 
muddy brook. The stone was too high for me to get down it, 
so had to go down by the side, and over a wire fence. Couldn’t 
reach the bag from the bank; had to walk into the muddy brook 
after it. By that time, water had got into the top and soaked 
nearly everything in it. The things on top were one mass of 
muddy water, so threw them away. Tried to dry the other 
things by spreading them out in the sun; finally put them back 
in the b|ag and came on . 

Next time I’ll sit where I want to, and frighten horses! 

Got lunch at a house in Donnellsville, only seven miles 
from Springfield—drying clothes on the grass takes time. 
The grandson of my lunch hostess was at the house. He left 
the service six months ago, after being on the battleships New 
Hampshire, Utah, and Alabama; was in the Mexican mix-up, 
and got shot in the knee. 

Came on to Vandalia, and am here. The son of the woman 
postmaster signed my slip at 6:30 p.m. After going to bed 
I remembered that I didn’t remember seeing the bunch of sign¬ 
ed statements. Wildly searched through everything half a 
dozen times, and then, by telephoning, found I had left them 
at the post office. 

These little towns on the pike are practically built on one 
street—the pike. Small hills and bunches of trees on all sides 
to-day. Fine farms continue. Saw a few corn and wheat fields 
under water. 

My landlady pro tern (no hotel in town) walked into my 
room without rapping; said'the assistant postmaster told her 
I had a “letter from one of the Postmaster-Generals,” and with 
emphasis,— 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


85 


“I should like to see your letters!” Some of the women are 
so sure Fm a disguised highwayman. She read the letters; 
then asked what time I wanted breakfast. Having learned 
from experience that I can’t have it one minute earlier than the 
regular time, whatever that may be, I meekly said, 

“At whatever time you have breakfast.” 

“My boarders come in at 6:30, and go through here” (the 
sitting room, off which is my room), “but of course your door 
will be closed.” Who would think of a woman’s leaving her 
door open into the general living room, in a strange house! I 
said I would try to be ready by 6:30. 

“I can’t ask my boarders to wait for you —they must have 
their breakfast by 6:30—one is a doctor.” 

I granted to ask if doctors in that town were such especially 
early risers; but merely said again I should try to be ready. To 
which she replied that if I wasn’t ready at 6:30, I would have 
to wait till her boarders got through and have my breakfast 
later. 

Then asked if I wanted “to sleep with air in the room.” 
An emphatic “Yes” brought forth the information that if I did 
I must help her put down the window. We tugged and pulled, 
she outside and me inside, until it came down about five inches, 
where it stuck. 

Just out of Springfield, passed, on a little rise, the Masonic 
Home, a stone building, near which they are erecting “a dormi¬ 
tory for the boys.” As I write this, it just occurs to me that 
“the boys” are the old Masons themselves, not, as I thought 
when the man told me, orphaned sons of Masons. 

Have been seeing more long-tailed sheep in Western Ohio. 

A yellow team (which I have a faint recollection of having 
seen other days), marked “Newton, Iowa,” passed me several 
times, and I passed it. In the team, back of the seat, was a 
light-haired young woman. One time, the young man driving, 
spoke to me. Between Tadmore and Vandalia, it passed me 
again, and the man got out and walked up the hill,—“Worst hill 
in Ohio,” he called it: he doesn’t know a thing about real hills. 
Told me all about it: he had picked out the horse and wagon, 
and then, a week ago, they got married, and were taking their 
wedding trip in this way. Says he “works” days, and that his 
wagon is loaded, but didn’t say what he is selling. They have 
a tent, and camp out. Fishing poles were sticking out of the 
wagon. He said if we met the next day, for me to eat with 
them. 


86 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 
V AND ALIA TO EBENEEZER, OHIO 


Saturday July 10. 

This morning, I was ready for breakfast before 6:30. One 
man—the doctor I suppose—came in about 6:40 other 

one a little later. Breakfast didn't get on the table till 7 
o’clock Landlady must have been glad her other boarders 
especially the doctor-didn’t have to wait for me! 

I puttered around, and didnt get started till after 8.30. 
Didn’t pass a post office in the whole 28 miles along the pike 
between Vandalia and Ebeneezer. Might have turned off into 
Lewisburg and found one, but didn’t. 

Fine, hot day. Rises and hollows all along the pike. Low 
hills and trees on all horizons. Some turns on the roads: 
one double-jointed one on a sharp little down-hill. Auto dub 
“Danger” signs for curves again. Also, people pasture a few 
cows on the side of the road once more. Saw one woman cow¬ 
herd with short sleeves and stockings on her arm, with holes 


for fingers and thumb. 

Everybody seems to have found the day I came from Colum¬ 
bus to West Jefferson a very bad day to work. One woman 
told me she had to leave her housework and go out in the shade 
and sit down; and a farmer told me he had to give up working 
in the field and go into the house. So maybe it wasn’t all on ac¬ 
count of my new shoes, or even my not having any lunch that 


day. 

At noon to-day, passing a new house on a farm, saw the 
people at dinner, and called in to know if I could have dinner. 
Man said, “Ask the cook,” the cook being one of the family. 
Cook was willing, so I got dinner. Went m at 12, and started 
on my way again at 1 o’clock. They told me Lewisburg was 
six miles; but when I had walked six miles, the town was Fuph- 
emia,—Lewisburg lay to the south of the pike, adjoining. 

On many of the country roads through Ohio, the poison 
ivy grows right down close to the roadway, and sometimes it 
has been cut with the weeds and thrown on the road to be 
tramped into the road bed. It seems as if the barefoot chiM- 
ren going along the roads must walk on it. There is so much 
of this ivy, I have wondered if they were immune from poison¬ 
ing—or inoculated for it. In a restaurant before getting to 
Euphemia,—ice cream room and poolroom combined, where I 
got two glasses of milk,—I asked the girl if the children didn’t 
get poisoned with the ivy that was everywhere along the roads. 
She said, 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


87 


“Oh, I don’t know; yes, they get poisoned, hut it goes away, 
don’t amount to anything.” And, “They get jiggers, too, but 
that doesn’t amount to anything, either.” 

I suppose if a child dies of a thing, it “amounts to” some¬ 
thing; otherwise, not. Asked what jiggers are, and she said, 
“things that raise white lumps.” Shall pass the inquiry on to 
the East,—What are jiggers?—when I send this bunch of D. 
B’s. on. 

In Euphemia, I drank some water out of the town pump, 
and then sat with a woman on her steps—which were out on the 
sidewalk. She said that the Town-pump well and lots of others 
were so full of sulphur that any pitcher or dish in which thei 
water stood a while, would coat with yellow in a short time. 

Left the steps and Euphemia for Ebeneezer (locally known 
as Gettysburg). Sky suddenly clouded up—one cloud ahead 
of me, low, ragged, and black. It seemed very close. As I 
hurried along, a woman asked me into her house till the rain 
should get over. 

While talking of my walk, I said I had planned to walk 
by daylight only, as I was afraid of walking in the dark. Her 
husband, who also had come into the house out of the rain (as 
had their fine brown collie), said he didn’t believe a woman 
who would undertake such a walk was afraid of the dark, or 
anything else. I giggled, thinking of one time, when tramping 
the Berkshires, that it got dark, and we (another girl and I) 
stood at a crossroads, afraid to go in either direction in the dark 
till some one came along and walked on with us. He nodded, 
very wisely,—satisfied; thought by my giggle I was agreeing 
with him. 

This kind woman not only invited me in to stay till the rain 
ceased; but, when I started on, told me to come here to this 
house and say that she (Mrs. R—) had sent me; that this 
woman and she went to the same church, and she knew she 
would let me stay all night. 

The heavy shower passed over, and I started on, in a light 
rain (enough to wear my raincoat), for Ebeneezer, four miles 
off. Got here at dark, though the sky below the rainclouds 
was still colored by the sunset. This woman didn’t want to 
take me in; when I mentioned that Mrs. R— had sent me, said 
she didn’t know Mrs. R—. When I said Mrs. R— said they 
went to the same church: 

“Well, if you are alone, I suppose I’ll keep you.” 

I sat and suffered from sleepiness for half an hour, an- 


88 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

swering questions; but my eyes kept closing, and I asked to go 
to bed. 

“Yes, if you want to,” in surprise. To be sure, it was 
hardly eight o'clock. 

At one of my night's stops in Ohio, where there were no 
facilities for washing in my room, and only one sheet on the 
bed, mine hostess looked at the sheet: 

“I think I’ll leave that on.” 

Are there towns where sheets are put on for looks, and 
taken off before sleeping? 

And at one house it took the combined efforts of the land¬ 
lady and myself to raise the lower sash of a window, the upper 
sash refusing to budge. But the room, even then, was horridly 
“stuffy”—it being a very sloping-roof room with the window 
opening at the floor. This is not meant for criticism—I was 
glad to be allowed to stay. 

EBENEEZER, OHIO, TO CAMBRIDGE CITY, INDIANA 

Sunday, July 11. 

After necessary darning, left Ebeneezer about 9 a. m., just 
after my landlady had rung the church bell. 

(At Vandalia, I won 20 cents in a drop-a-penny-turn-handle 
and-numbers-go-round-machine. Why writing of the church 
bell should have made me think of that, I don’t know, perhaps 
the bell brought my gambling sins to my mind.) 

Quite a few turns in the road this morning, and also a few 
little hills. Finally, after a turn and going south for five min¬ 
utes, perhaps, the road led out to the Dayton-Richmond Pike, 
at right angles to the road I was on. The stone of which 
the Pike is built crushes into almost white sand—hard on the 
eyes and feet. 

Crossed from Ohio into Indiana about 11 o’clock. Pigs in 
a field across which the State line seems to run. Will they be 
Ohio pork, or Indiana pork? 

Up some hills on the hard white sand pike, and into Rich¬ 
mond (about ten miles from Ebeneezer)—quite a city. Being 
Sunday, didn’t go to the post office. From 12 to 2:30 stayed 
in the Pennsylvania Station, where I got lunch—a good lunch. 

Think I prefer my paved city streets, if I must have them, 
at noon, as to-day, rather than to reach the cities at night, 
and have to start the next morning on several miles of pave¬ 
ment. 



OHIO CORNFIELDS 
“Tall corn shuts out the view” 



INDIANA ALFALFA 

“The Indiana farmers are raising considerable alfalfa” 








TO SAN FRANCISCO 


89 


On the green by the Pennsylvania station is hung a bell 
on a framework, and this tablet: 

“Bell cast in 1840 and hung at the station in Madison, Ind., 
on the old Madison & Indianapolis, later the J. M. & I. and rung 
30 minutes before train departed.” 

Richmond has a good idea: over the entrance to Glen Miller 
Park, besides the name of the park over the roadway into it, 
there are, over the foot-walks’ entrances, “Richmond” over the 
left one, and “Indiana” over the right-hand one. 

Coming West from Richmond, I passed the buildings of 
Earlham College,—a Quaker College for men and women. Near 
it, the Earlham Cemetery—also for both men and women. 

A small boy (of the nicely dressed variety), as I came down 
the Earlham College Hill, asked where I was going. 

“Give you a penny if you guess right.” 

“San Francisco” came back to me instantly. He got his 
penny, —a bright, new shiny one I had annexed somewhere. 

Through Centreville and Germantown to Cambridge City. 
At Centreville, a banner hangs across the road, reading, 

OLD NATIONAL ROAD 
DIXIE HIGHWAY 

In Indiana, it is no longer the National Pike. It has be¬ 
come “National Road”; and my inquiry for it under the title 
“National Pike” caused hesitation in the reply each time. And 
just when I had taught myself to say “pike!” 

On the way to Germantown two young men in a buggy 
(natives—everyone along the road seemed to know them) over¬ 
took me and walked the horse several miles (when I refused 
to ride), talking about my trip. We passed the District In¬ 
firmary,—“for the infirm poor, who are crippled, and so on”, 
one of the boys explained. Good buildings and pleasant location. 

If Ohio children are immune from poison, Indiana children 
must be immnue from drowning. The bridges over streams 
Lave no protection to keep a small child from falling off—noth¬ 
ing from the floor of the bridge up for about 2:M> feet, where 
there is a rail, or sometimes iron work of some kind. Some of 
the bridges are built of narrow pieces of wood, or boards on 
edge, running lengthwise, instead of the usual planking laid 
from one side to the other. 

Got to Cambridge City (nearly 16 railroad miles from Rich¬ 
mond) and came to this hotel. Fairly good supper. But these 
small places in Indiana, just as in Ohio, do not seem to under¬ 
stand why anyone wishes to wash before eating. Woman 
here, when she said she would give me a room after supper and 


90 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

I suggested that I was dirty from walking and needed washing, 
was much surprised: 

“I supposed you wanted your supper first.” 

Been a sultry day, fortunately cloudy. 

One day in Ohio (yesterday, I think) passed a nursery 
of catalpa trees, bordered by very large catalpa trees in blossom. 
Asked the man what they raised the trees for, and he said, 
“Mostly fence poles.” Was that an Ohio joke, or is it so? 

Wonder if the girl that told me about the jiggers wished, 
them on me. My neck has a lot of little white lumps. 

Counting my mile or more running round in Richmond, 
and the amount longer the wagon road is than the railroad,, 
must have come about 28 miles at least. 

The papers report twenty people killed in the big storm 
down Cincinnati way. I surely was lucky that I changed my 
route; otherwise I would have been in that storm. 

CAMBRIDGE CITY TO CHARLOTTESVILLE, INDIANA 

Monday , July 12. 

The Postmaster signed at 7:45 a.m., after which he became 
quite genial, and it was an hour later before I got away. The 
girl clerk wants a postal when I get to San Francisco. 

A rather good breakfast at Cambridge City. At Strawn, 
about seven miles from Cambridge City, a little hotel said 
“Meals at all hours.” Had two glasses of milk and two pieces 
of raspberry pie. Woman said, when I stopped, that the meal 
wasn’t ready, and she had only one glass of milk; but her little 
boy brought in some before I left. The sign probably meant 
just what it said, “Meals at all hours”; had there been more 
than one of me, so that meals instead of a 'meal was ^wanted, 
meals would probably have been forthcoming at any hour. 

I have learned to stop if, a few hours after starting out, 
I pass a place where I can get eats, unless I feel sure of getting 
something at a larger town before night. 

On through Lewisville and Dunreith to Knightstown, 
about 19 miles from Cambridge City, where I went bo the post 
office at 4:30, and then got supper. Some five miles farther 
I came to Charlottesville, where I have persuaded an ex-board¬ 
ing house to let me stay all night. Nice, pleasant woman. A 
big auburn hound here at the house. 

Oh, for a table to write on! Miss it more here, perhaps, 
because, not being so tired to-night, I would prefer to sit up at 
a table and write, rather than to go to bed and write lying 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


91 


down. I have worked out a scheme of writing lying on my 
back on the bed, with my feet propped up on pillows on the foot¬ 
board; they seem not to ache so much that way. There is a 
table in the next room if I wanted to write out there, but the 
family may want it themselves. 

Been horrid, hot and sultry to-day. About 25 miles in all. 

Gas meters (at least I think they're gas) 'are in the front 
yards of some houses. Seems a very exposed position for 
meters of any kind in a country where it snows and freezes in 
winter. 

In Western and Central Ohio and here in Indiana, the 
schoolhouse windows are protected with iron gratings. Sought 
to discover if it was to keep the pupils in during schooltime, or 
out during vacation. Both guesses wrong. Some say it’s to 
keep tramps out (me?); the most frequent explanation, is that 
the gratings keep the children's balls from breaking the glass. 

Have had fairly good beds at the small hotels so far. But 
at one it was awful. Over the mattress was a comforter that 
smelled horribly musty, as did the room. Between comforter 
and sheet were newspapers. When the rattle became intoler¬ 
able, I chucked the papers on the floor, only to find that the 
mattress was so thin that the springs, which were broken, 
stuck through. Took the comforter from over me and folded 
it and put it under the sheet, thus reducing the nearness of the 
musty smell as well as the sharpness of the springs. Impossible 
to sleep; in the morning I told the hotel woman about the bed; 
she got indignant, of course: 

“I have the best beds of any hotel. You have never slept 
in hotel beds, and don't know!'' 

At one place there was a door up a step, from my room into 
the next (fastened on the other side—I tried it), with a wide 
crack in the door. After I put out the light, rustling soon 
began in there by the door and lasted for a long time. I lit 
the kerosene lamp and left it burning. Not a sound after I lit 
it. Thought it was rats but it may have been landlady. 

CHARLOTTESVILLE TO GREENFIELD, INDIANA 

Tuesday , July 13. 

Mrs. Charlottesville, at whose house I had a nice bed and 
comfortable room, gave me breakfast, and I started for Green¬ 
field and mail. Level road; 9 miles. 

From one house a little brown dog ran out barking, and 
the woman hurried after him to see what he was barking at. 


92 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


As it was only a woman, she didn't call him in. I have \noticed 
an inclination in women who start to call in their barking dogs, 
when they see it is a woman passing, to let them bark away. 
Is it because a man may kick or hurt a dog, and they know a 
woman won’t? While this little dog barked there, an auto 
rushed down the road and ran over the poor little chap. He 
jumped up and rushed round in circles until he ran into the 
ditch at the side of the road and was drowned. ' 

Man in a team, with his father and a child, was asking 
about the trip. Said he and his wife had seen me last night, 
and he had told her it was a San Francisco walk. 

t 

GREENFIELD TO INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA 

Monday , July 19. 

On July 13, had slip signed in Greenfield Post Office at 
10:20 a.m. Got mail; one letter contained very bad news, 
which necessitated my returning East immediately for a few 
days. Telegraphed for money, received it, and started East 
that night. This morning, the 19th, arrived at Greenfield again, 
from the East, at 6:05 a.m. Changed to my tramping clothes, 
putting on a pair of boy’s “play shoes” I had got in Bbston. 
Had breakfast, and got mail. The kindly Assistant Postmaster, 
at 9:20 a.m., again signed my slip, stating that I had reported 
to resume my walk to San Francisco. 

Left Greenfield at 9:45 a.m. In Philadelphia (Indiana, of 
course) had lunch a little after 11. Good cooking—fried chick¬ 
en. Later, in Cumberland (Indiana), got glass of plain soda. 

Some women in auto, after asking me to ride, stopped and 
had a long talk. One of them, a young girl, said: 

“Why, it won’t take long to get to San Francisco, it isn’t 
very far,”—and she meant it. 

All this attempt in the school courses, to make things easy 
and interesting for the pupils, is creating a lot of high school 
graduates who are ignorant of the simplest facts of history 
and geography, not to mention spelling and English! I was 
mean enough to advise her to look it up on a map. 

If people only knew what misery it is to stand talking to 
them—so much harder on my feet than walking! 

Just before I got to Irvington, man in auto stopped and 
had a long chat. He realized his stopping me would prevent 
my reaching Indianapolis before dark, and tried to insist I 
should ride. Said he would take me into the city and leave me 
wherever I wanted to stay, and to-morrow morning bring me out 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


93 


to where he had picked me up, so that I could continue walking 
from there. That would have been fair, and I would gladly 
have accepted but feared some one might see me riding, and 
believe and say I hadn’t walked the whole way. 

Got to Irvington at dark. From there to Indianapolis, 
except one not long space of field with high fence, it 4s built 
up pretty well all the way, and electric lights. 

Stopped at a little store and got some lemons (which I 
squeezed into water), a cantaloupe, and a cucumber, and ate 
them. Doesn’t sound very nourishing, or especially attractive 
combination; hope they have mixed internally without discord. 

From this store, telephoned the Y. W. C. A., and they gave 
me an address for a room, to which I telephoned. It took much 
longer to walk in than I had expected; and, it being so late, I 
tried to get a room before getting into the down town city. 
While the men who came to the doors where I inquired for a 
room were pleasant, I didn’t get a room. Luckily, because I 
would have had that much more pavement to walk to-morrow 
morning. I feared the people where I had engaged the room 
by telephone would think it strange I didn’t come, so telephoned 
again; the lady said they were waiting for me. Got here after 
ten o’clock. Have the back parlor to sleep in; and have had a 
bath in a real bathtub—cold water, though. 

Road straight and uninteresting to-day. Saw red-headed 
woodpecker—same kind as here and there since starting. Only 
made about 22 miles, besides a couple in the city, making* 
about 24. Very warm. Learn that last week was the hottest 
week of the summer, so far, in Indiana. 

Have given East St. Louis, Illinois, as my next address. 
Want to cut out St. Louis, Missouri, if I can. There is so much 
pavement in the large cities. 

INDIANAPOLIS TO DANVILLE, INDIANA 

Tuesday , July 20. 

Had a good breakfast at 7 o’clock, at the house where I 
stayed; but no appetite. The cooking has been so uniformly 
poor, that when I get to a city, somehow I can’t eat even the 
good food. 

Notwithstanding early breakfast, it was 9:30 before I got 
my slip signed at the Post Office; left at 9:45. 

Indianapolis, the second State capital that I have passed 
through, has four main avenues that run to the four corners 
of the city from Monument Place, in the centre. (It doesn’t 


94 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


seem to me in the centre, but never mind, “they” say so. There 
is a fine residence section, with trees and lawns. Monument 
Place has a soldiers and sailors monument in it, 285 feet high. 
The White River runs by the city; and here I discovered some 
of my own ignorance, as I didn’t know, until to-day, a thing 
about White River, not even that there was such a river. New 
bridge is a-building on West Washington Street—and dust!— 
or is it sand powdered? East Washington Street becomes 
“State Plaza” in the residence district. 

For ten miles going into Indianapolis, and for eight miles 
coming out, the highway is oiled. I don’t think I like oiled roads 
for walking; the oil holds the dust, and my shoes hold both the 
oil and the dust. 

A few miles west of Indianapolis, the roads fork, the “Na¬ 
tional Road”—my intended route— going to St. Louis and an¬ 
other road going to the right, “Pike’s Peak Road, Coast to 
Coast route, 400 miles shorter than any other,”—something 
like that. In Indianapolis, I had heard woeful stories of the 
deep sand on the road to St. Louis, almost untravelable now 
on account of the dry weather. At this fork of the road, tried 
to find out, in a little store, about the two roads, but the woman 
didn’t know anything, or wouldn’t bother telling me. Wonder if 
the travelling men are right, and people say they don’t know 
because it is easier than to answer questions. 

Instead of keeping to the National Road, I took the Pike’s 
Peak Road, which is marked by red and white bands painted 
on the telephone poles. It was the narrower road at that 
place, but it may be the better—anyway, it’s not too bad. 

Got lunch at a house with small farm attached. The 
people were very anxious I should know that they were not 
farmers! The Indiana farmers are raising considerable alfalfa. 

While at lunch, the wind blew hard and a few drops of 
rain fell. However, I went on. It soon began to rain hard. 
Went into one of the little stations of the “Interurban”, which 
ran along the road I was on, and put pn my raincoat and the 
sneakers I have been carrying in my little bag. The new shoes 
I began wearing in Greenfield have kept so nice, I don’t want 
to get them water-soaked any sooner than needful; hence chang¬ 
ed ,to the sneakers that I have been carrying in my bag. A 
telephone man that came into the little station says I will 
find the people through here unaccomodating in ,the matter of 
meals and staying over night. Encouraging! 

The rain had stopped by the time ,1 left the little station; 
but it rained again. Stopped in a little store in Avon while the 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


95 


hardest of the shower went by; on in the rain, which was over 
before I got to Danville. Got here before dark, after only about 
21 miles to-day. The best I can do generally is to accept rail¬ 
road mileage between towns, or section miles; the wagon roads 
are usually longer, on account of turns and corners and up and 
down hills—even slight rises add to the length. 

This noon, was told there were hills between Avon and 
Danville; but found they were only very little rises, until the 
main street of Danville which seemed all up hill (not a very bad 
one though). When I got here, stopped in a restaurant and had 
cheese sandwich and two glasses of milk; and this noon I had 
a whole pitcher of fine buttermilk. 

Some little turns in the road to-day. Passed the “Hendricks 
Co. Home” (Co. standing for county)—a home for the aged 
poor. 

Some little cream-colored sheep—the first pretty sheep I 
ever saw. Still seeing sheep with long tails—some nearly 
touching the ground. 

Got mail at Indianapolis this morning. 

A letter from Sprague, Wash., dated July 6, says: 

“It seems as if you had done quite a piece of the stunt 
already”. That made me feel quite chipper. 

But—one from Washington, D. C., dated July 8, asks: 

“Do you think you will make it?” whereat I felt discour¬ 
aged, and sat thinking of the hardships passed and to come, 
until I opened another letter from the same city in which I read 
about: ) 

“The remarkable progress you are making, and we are 
confident if you keep up the rate you will end the trip in quick 
time. You are ‘going some’!”—whereupon I feel cheerful again. 

DANVILLE TO /MORTON, INDIANA 

Wednesday , July 21. 

In Danville (built on the side of a hill) there are two 
rooming houses (no meals) and two Hunch rooms. The lunch 
room I went into on getting there is run by a very-much foreign¬ 
er, who, when I asked if he would have any kind of meat for 
breakfast, wanted to know if it was a drink or ice-cream. Had 
breakfast in the other lunchroom, which is run by Americans. 
Left Danville at 7:30 a.m. 

One place on the road, two fluffy birds stood on a fence- 
post. They were about as big as sparrows, with big heads 
and long curved-down bills. One of them was saying, “Cheeeep- 


% AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

checeep!” most shrilly. At first I thought it was trying to 
entice me away from its nest; when 1 went over to the post, 
one of them went away, with much fluttering of wings, while 
the other stood on the post and let me smooth its downy self. 
When I left, it got up courage to flutter after the other one 
to a low tree. Later, saw dark gray birds that may be the 
grown-ups of the same kind. Perhaps they got away from 
home while the old birds were off foraging; pr maybe the rain 
and wind knocked their nest down. 

iSome very short, steep little up and down hills and turns 
in the road. Views on all sides much less, on account of the fre¬ 
quent rises and the trees. Saw more cream-colored sheep. 

Lunch at a wayside house where meals are served. 

At Bainbridge, 16 miles from Danville, the postmaster, a 
young woman, signed at 4 p.m. Each of the three stores had 
a lunchcounter ; as a side issue. Went into one, and as soon as 
I got inside the door, the woman called, from away back in the 
store, in such a tone: 

“Is there anything you want?” 

“<Surely there is, or I wouldn’t have jcome in.” 

However, she had only crackers, pie, cake, and ham sand¬ 
wiches. Ham being taboo, pn account of its salt, I tried a 
second store, where I had smoked beef shoulder, bread and 
butter, coffee, and cococola. Smoked beef shoulder (doesn’t 
sound much less thirst-producing than ham—but the storekeeper 
in the second place was pleasant, while the woman was uncivil, 
really. 

Before getting to Morton, asked a woman to let me get a 
drink ,at her well. She and her daughter were working in a 
garden at the side of the house. She sent the grown-up daugh¬ 
ter to show me where it was. When I came back through the 
yard to the road, they had both gone into the house, and shut 
every window and door—all of which were open rwhen I first 
stopped. What a hobo I must be getting to be! 

Came on to Morton, about seven miles farther; making 23 
miles in all; and got a place to stay in a house by the road. 
The woman said she supposed I had had supper at Bainbridge— 
raising hopes in my appetite regions. I hastened to say: 

“No, only a very little bit of lunch 1” She didn’t offer to 
get me a bite! 

The Eastern Stars were congregating for a meeting, and, 
seeing she sat watching their passing, I tried to wait till they 
had all gone by. But they strung along so slowly, and I was 
so very tired and (Sleepy, that finally, after dark, I asked to go 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


07 


to my room. Mine hostess aaid Hhe had been waiting for her 
“girl” who had “gone over home,” to come buck. Ilut the girl 
didn't come, and after a while ahe hcraclf went upstairs with 
me, and waited in the hall till I should get in bed, aa ahe “needed 
the lamp down stairs.” Therefore yesterday's walk did not 
get written up until to-day, the 22d. 

MORTON ,TO MONTEZUMA, INDIANA 

Thursday, July 22, 

Had an early breakfast this morning—the first early one 
I have been able to get. 

Got away at 0:10 a.m. An hour or two later, passed a 
schoolhouse some distance back from the (Street, with trees in 
the yard, and a man and woman under the trees waved their 
hands to imc. Then the man called, which made me look more 
closely; there was a yellow covered wagon and a horse. It was 
the young man and his wife I had met in Ohio, who were taking 
their wedding trip in a wagon. Later, while I was in a store 
getting icococola, they drove past. 

Had a long talk on tramping, with the people in the little 
cococola store. The man said he always wanted to get a team 
and take the family out camping; but the woman said very 
emphatically nay! that some of the children might get sick 
on such a trip. And I wondered how near medical attendance 
was to their little store! But I suppose she »felt safer under a 
roof. 

On the way toward Rockville, met a buggy with a subscrip¬ 
tion agent of one of the Indianapolis papers in it. Said riding 
round day after day was monotonous; was interested in my 
tramp, and wanted me to ride back with him over his route and 
tell him about it, promising to bring me to the identical place in 
the road where we were talking, to continue my walk. The 
same story: travelling men can't get good meals through these 
Middle states, except in the cities. 

Got to Rockville (about 16 miles from Morton) a little after 
1 o'clock. Passed the Rockville Pumping Station about two 
miles before reaching Rockville. Farther on, near the town, a 
Rockville man in a buggy told me where to get a good dinner 
there. And it was good, and lots of lit. 

The woman where I had dinner said, looking pointedly at 
my little bag: i 

“I should think the dogs would fly at you; they are usually 
cross to anyone walking, especially with a bundle.” 


98 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

But the dogs, being intelligent, evidently know that my little 
bag is a bag, and ( not a “bundle.” 

Hot this morning; so stayed at Rockville till a little after 
4 o'clock. Went to the ( post office there, but didn’t see the post¬ 
master, so came on to Montezuma, which is quite a town. Pas¬ 
sed some gipsies camping out— ia covered wagon, a woman, a 
baby, and two other small children, some horses and mules. 
Nearer Montezuma, some men, a woman, and children were 
eating at a table under a tree at the side of the road; they 
had >a big van marked “Bloomingdale” with a firm name on it, 
—I’ve forgotten the name. Were rather gruff when I inquired 
for Montezuma; perhaps they feared I wanted a share of their 
eats. 

A black bird, bigger than a crow, flew along, saying, 
“Ark! ark!” as it flew. Later saw crows, and they were smaller, 
and said “Carr! carr!” just as crows should. 

At a place where the road I was walking ended in another 
road shaped like an arch, I couldn’t tell which side of the arch 
to take. Asked a woman at the house there, and she said she 
didn’t know. I stopped and talked a while; she got friendly, 
and asked me if I really wanted to know about the road. Said 
I was on the right road for Montezuma, but people often asked 
“just to fool” her, and so now she always said she didn’t know! 
Perhaps, after all, the travelling men are right when they say 
people do know about the towns and roads, and just make be¬ 
lieve they don’t. • Y 

Before getting here to Montezuma, were several miles with 
very few houses. Then a cement manufactory and a little 
village of houses round it, before I turned north to the centre 
of the town—or is it a city? It has two hotels: this one has 
a man clerk. This is noticeable, as most of the small hotels 
are run by women. Did not go to the post office to-night. 

According to some folks, 25 miles to-day; 26, others say; 
and still others, 27 miles. I agree with the last. Lots of turns 
in the road; some very short hills, and one quite longish hill 
(both up and down), though not steep. 

I have been walking over six weeks; and so far there has 
been but -one night when those little bugs that live on the wood 
of beds, with an occasional meal off an entrapped traveller, 
took their toll. That same night, there was little pn the bed 
besides one sheet, and extra bedclothes on a chair smelled so 
doggy /(a little dog that was around the house must have been 
sleeping on them) that I preferred being cold to using them. 
It was a very miserable night. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 99 

MONTEZUMA, INDIANA, TO CHRISMAN, ILLINOIS. 


Friday , July 23. 

Not so many miles to-day—perhaps not more than 19 or 20. 
Been hot, and this afternoon I had a headache. 

Got started at 7:45, after a punk breakfast and stopping 
at 7:30 for the postmaster, a woman, to sign. f 

Here one no longer is given a ‘‘room” or “bed,” but 
“lodging”. 

The road west led across a long, narrow bridge over the 
muddy Wabash River; with willows on the Montezuma bank, 
and cornfields and a railroad track on the pther. A lot of the 
corn had been spoiled by the water, and some of it was still 
partly under water. Then up a long hill, with ,a turn in the 
road. After that, quite level. 

Trees getting more plentiful,—more around the houses, 
and some along the road. Also, more often little groups of 
trees and thin groves. Long, Jevel stretches of road. The 
trees on the roadside don’t give as much shade as they might, 
on account of the (general east and west direction of the road. 

At 11 o’clock, left the Pike’s Peak Highway and went 
south one-half mile to Dana for ^unch. Back to the road at 
li2 o’clock, and came on here to Chrisman. Crossed the In- 
diana-Illinois line about half way between Montezuma and 
Chrisman, this side of Dana. A cornfield on one side of the 
line; a wheatfield on the other: that man must pay taxes in two 
States. 

After getting a room here,/went to the Post Office at 5:40 
p.m., and then got supper. 

This morning, passed my wagon travelling acquaintances, 
camped <put and not started for the day, as the housewife 
(or should I say “wagon-wife?”) was doing Monday’s washing, 
—next Monday’s, I hope for her sake. They had started down 
the St. Louis road from Indianapolis, but the sand was so deep 
they had to turn off and come over to this road. 

At forks in the road, in the yard of a schoolhouse, pulled 
off my shoes and stockings and pumped water on my hot 
feet. The doors were open. The pupils’ drawings and paint¬ 
ings were on the walls of the schoolroom, and some were un¬ 
usually good. Books were scattered about on the desks. I 
evidently was not the first visitor: two empty whisky bottles 
were on one of the desks. 

Two miles before Chrisman, asked a woman if I might sit 
down in the shade of a big tree in her yard (no fence to it). 


100 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


She asked me to sit on the porch, and we had a long talk- 
She went into the house, while I talked to the ,rest of the 
family; and just as I was saying it was ,hard to get food, she 
appeared with a piece of cake in a plate. At which we all 
laughed, and she wanted to know what we were paying about 
her. 

Left there, after resting, and ,came on the last two hot 
miles to Chrisman. This is a pleasant house; the maid took 
me into a room downstairs to wash, and I w^s suspicious of 
the towel, which looked as if it had been wiped on. But it 
must be clean, as it showed the ironing creases. 

For a short distance into Illinois, the hard “improved” 
road continues; then very dark dirt road begins. The latter 
is much easier on eyes than the “good, roads” of Indiana. 
But these dark mud roads must be bad in stormy weather. 

They tell me it is cool for this time of year in this part 
of the country; but to-day was a mean hot day, and I had a 
headache—have been unusually free of them since I started. 

Have been trying to find out what larger places the 
Pike's Peak Highway runs through, but haven’t been able until 
to-day to find out far enough ahead to give a mail address. 
Learn it goes through Hannibal, Missouri, and have written 
the East St. Louis Postmaster to forward my mail there: 
expect to get to Hannibal July 30. 

Having got across two States, besides parts of Maryland 
and Pennsylvania, I am beginning to dare to think ahead. 
Hope to reach Colorado by September 1. Before ,that, comes 
Missouri (a wide State by the map) and Kansas (very wide 
from east to west, and reported very hot—hope it won’t be). 
Many warnings are given me of the dangers of these “electric 
storms” through the Middle West. They surely are “fierce!” 

CHRISMAN TO CAMARGO, ILLINOIS 

Saturday, July 21+. 

Got off at 7:45, after a punk breakfast. Everything 
soaked with fat—even the boiled hominy was too fatty to eat. 

Since leaving Montezuma, the rings on the telephone poles 
have been red above and white below; before, they were white 
above and red below. The white stripe can be seen a long way 
off; the red, only a short distance. 

Cloudy all day till nearly 5 o’clock. Road practically level, 
and very few trees—only those around houses. High corn in 
the fields—six or eight feet high; part in blossom, and showing 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


101 


“silk” on ears. Some of the cornfields had no fences next 
the road. Slight rises and hollows in the road, kept me from 
seeing too far ahead. One can “see too far ahead:” the end¬ 
less road stretching out in the hot sun is most discouraging. 

Ten miles from Chrisman, the road turns south into Hume, 
and I did, too; had two cheese sandwiches and three cups of 
coffee in a restaurant. Came on to Newman (6 miles) and 
asked women on a porch about the road; they sent me “the 
South road” to Murdock, which town they said was six miles 
farther on. They asked the usual questions, and before I left 
the porch, half a dozen women had drifted over. 

TVo miles east of Murdock, a young woman came out to 
her gate as I came down the road, and said the telephone at 
Newman wanted me. I went in, but the line was busy and it 
was about ten minutes before we got it. I sat visioning catas- 
trophies in Washington or Boston, so serious that someone 
had taken a chance of catching me on long distance in Jllinois 
somewhere! I must have looked queer, for she hurried to get 
me water, and advised waiting a while before I called up. At 
last we got the line. It was one of the women I had talked to 
in Newman, who wanted me to send her a postal after I got to 
San Francisco! The reaction from my anxiety was followed 
by what I knew even at the time was unreasoning anger at 
her; if I were at San Francisco to-night, she would never get 
her postal! However, I know I shall send it—what’s the use! 

I hustled on to Murdock. The men of the settlement had 
collected at the store, and lined up on the outside of the side¬ 
walk, about half a dozen strong, to see the strange woman go 
by. This I attributed to the Newman postal-wanting woman 
and her facility with ithe use of the telephone. 

The woman who gave me the telephone message told me 
that about four miles west of Murdock the road turned south) 
a very little way and crossed “the aqueduct”, and from there 
it was about a mile to Camargo. All I could see when I cros¬ 
sed the low bridge was a pool of apparently stagnant water 
on each side of it, with lots of green slime on the water. That 
can’t be the source of supply for the town water. 

Just oast of the “aqueduct” bridge an elderly fattish man 
in an auto going east stopped and asked where I was walking, 
etc. And as always when anyone keeps me talking late in the 
afternoon, I watched the shadows grow longer—and wondered 
if I should reach town before dark. I sat on the step of the 
machine while we talked—a dandy big car. The man said, 
among other things, that he was a bachelor. Funny, that men 


102 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


take pains to mention that (others have), as though it were 
a badge for exceptional bravery. 

Got into Camargo, at the top of a little rise, before 7:30 
p.m. Post Office closed, ^nd it’s Saturday night, too. That 
means no Postmaster’s signature for two days! But the post 
office being closed on time shows that Camargo considers it¬ 
self ,a city, and not a village. 

I was assured along the way to-day that Camargo had a 
hotel. It turned, on close acquaintance, into a small boarding 
house. The landlady told me I would have to go to a (restau¬ 
rant for supper, as it was past supper time; but when I came 
downstairs to go out, she gave me a cold vegetable supper, 
which I rejoiced to get. In “helping” me, she put a big chunk 
of butter on my plate; on my saying it was too bad to spoil 
all that butter, as J used very little butter, she said in surprise: 

“You aren’t poison, are you? I can put back what you 
don’t eat.” I hastily and meekly .agreed that I wasn’t poison. 

The house has a well, and the water is cold and clear—so 
I don’t ,care whether the town water comes from under that 
bridge or not! Probably there really are pipes with good 
water running through under it, and I didn’t see them. 

Between Newman and Murdock, where the road turns 
sharply from west to north, is a sign: 

“Slow up at this corner fool.” 

Here and there is a sign, “Do not drive on the smooth side 
of the road when muddy.” Most of the roads have a smooth 
side—where the road scrapers go over it—and a rough side, 
with a hump between. 

Made 28 miles to-day; and now I am wondering if that 
counts in the angles. < 

One morning this week while I was packing my bag, the 
maid said she wanted to get the bed linen, because it “must be 
pressed out.” She took off the pillow-slips and sheets and 
sprinkled them and rolled them up ready to iron for the next 
victim! 

And this week, also, where I had a small room, one window 
close to the floor and close to the foot of the bed, one little bug 
I found, in the morning. 


CAMARGO TO HAMMOND, ILLINOIS 


Sunday , July 25. 

Didn’t sleep well at all last night. 

Went down to the Postmaster’s house this morning, and he 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


103 


signed my slip, showing that I got to Camargo last evening 
at 6:30' p.m. He didn’t offer to go to the post office to stamp 
it. A man who was at the house said he met me yesterday 
when he was on a harvesting machine. I remember meeting 
the machine. 

On some wayside advice, came the “south road” out of 
Camargo, instead of following the red and white poles; was 
told it was shorter than the north road to Tuscola, and that 
the latter was being repaired. So was the south road, I found. 

Hot. Rested in the shade in a cemetery just east of 
Tuscola, for half an hour. Tuscola is a junction for two 
railroads. 

The towns are mostly either north or south of the road 
I am travelling,—a comparatively straight and level road. 
Practically all turns are right angled turns. The roads run 
directly north and south, or east and west. 

During the morning, a thunder-storm came up. I passed 
several houses where the people were sitting on the porches, 
and at each one I wondered if they would ask me to come up 
on the porch out of the rain,—but no! they watched me trudge 
on in the thunder and rain. On one porch where a man and 
woman were sitting (no longer young), I asked if I might 
come up out of the rain. Waited there till the shower was over. 

Just before getting to the road that leads to Garrett, I saw a 
big covered team in front of a farmhouse, and several men 
standing talking. A chance to get dinner, I thought, as the 
men with the team had probably been getting theirs. As I 
came up to them, I asked the man that looked “at home”, if 
his wife would sell me a dinner. He went in, coming back with; 

“Its all right; come in.” 

The travellers with the teams had stopped for water; 
were carrying their own eats. Three men, several women, 
and two children, with a big covered team, three horses and a 
dog,—all on their way from Chicago to some place in Kansas 
to “see their folks.” 

I had just a fine dinner. They say so many people used 
to stop and ask for a meal, most of them wanting to pay for 
it, that, though they used to refuse to take any pay at first, 
now they make a charge of 25 cents. Not only were the vege¬ 
tables fresh from the farm, but, what is so unusual through 
here, cooked well. 

While at the house where I had dinner, the hardest thund¬ 
er and lightning and rain I have seen on this trip came on. 
Though they cut out the telephone, the electricity played 


104 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


round the wires in the room. Waited there a couple of hours; 
some of their friends came in out of the rain while I was there. 
Stories of stock being struck in the fields during storms. 
When I walked on, the mud wasn’t so bad as I expected it to 
be: the roads are built high in the middle and slope so much 
toward the sides that the water runs off. 

Got here to Hammond just at dark. Hammond is north 
of the east-west main road I am travelling. Restaurant and 
hotel combined; had some cold lunch for supper—it being after 
proper meal time. 

Fine this morning; then cloudy; and the heavy thunder 
showers. 

Only about 23 miles. The people count the mileage here 
by the railroad mileage. They admit the wagon roads are, 
“Oh, a mile or two or three longer,—but why don’t you take 
the railroad tracks?” In the heat of these days! But they 
can’t understand. 

The heat through here makes the stories of the Kansas 
hot winds seem very plausible. 

HAMMOND TO DECATUR, ILLINOIS 

Monday , July 26. 

To the post office, where the postmaster signed at 7:20 
a.m. Then westward again. 

Just outside of Hammond, had long talk with man in 
topless buggy. Said he was married (which is as amusing 
a? to have a man say he isn’t), a mason, and a farmer. Don’t 
think he had been a farmer many moons. 

Long, straight east-west roads, with here and there an 
angle and half a mile straight north and then west again. 
One place, where the E-W and N-S roads crossed, there seemed 
to be no red and white rings on the telephone poles. At a house 
near the corner, I inquired which road to take. Had a drink of 
water and then asked for buttermilk. The woman, who was 
washing, went down cellar and got me a pitcher of it, for which 
she refused to take pay. Also asked me if I wanted to stay 
to dinner; but it was too early—10:45 a.m. So she told me 
that a woman who let people have meals lived 4 V 2 miles farther 
on. The young son of the house drew out a plan on the pprch 
floor 2 miles west, ^rnile north, 2 miles west again, and 
there on the corner was the dinner house. 

Almost as soon as I started on again, I began to feel sick 
and have been sick all the way to Decatur. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


105 


Found the dinner house, and asked for lunch; which, after 
the customary explanations, the woman brought out to me on 
the porch in a plate. Brown leghorn chickens were inclined 
to dispute my right to it. Three children here, a girl of nine, 
a boy of six, and a baby eight months old. 

This woman, too, suggested that I ought to walk to Decatur 
on the railroad; though her small girl said there was “a danger¬ 
ous bridge” on the railroad over the river. When I crossed 
the river later, on the roadway bridge, I saw that the rail¬ 
road bridge was high above the water—the Sagamon River. 
Before crossing the river, the road to Decatur takes several 
curves and turns. 

Signs on farms along the way, “No trespassing,” or “No 
hunting on this farm,” often end with “Keep out.” To any¬ 
one to whom “trespassing” is an unknown word, the “keep out” 
leaves no doubt of what is meant. Wonder why it isn’t used 
everywhere instead of “No trespassing”; there’s some doubt 
what constitutes trespass, but “Keep out” means only one thing. 

Over two miles east of Decatur, I came to a park, and 
under a tree by the roadside was a seat. I sat. A “Park 
Dept.” auto passed, on the front of which was a mechanical 
little policeman wildly waving his arms—quite fascinating to 
watch. 

A man came out of a nearby house, and had his little 
boy get me drink. Said he himself was crippled with rheuma¬ 
tism, and had tried all kinds of stuff for it, and just then 
had bought a bottle of something from a woman in a team, 
which she said she was sure would cure him! I had watched 
the transaction after I sat down. He had great hopes of 
this new medicine. Hope is a wonderful thing—probably he 
thought my hope of reaching San Francisco was ■'uch less 
likely to be fulfilled than his of getting cured by the new medi¬ 
cine. Isn’t it Elbert Hubbard who says that if it were not 
for hope all men would die—something to that effect? 

From the bench where I rested, there were two routes into 
Decatur—one over the hill, and the other round it. Man said 
over the hill was shorter; now I have my doubts, though I 
took that way. Probably either way I took would have seemed 
the longer. About 23 miles to-day. 

Looked up the address of the Y. W. C. A. in a directory, 
after I got into the outskirts of the city. When I got into the 
city, asked a man where it was, and he said, “a mile and over”. 

At the end of a hot day, when one is sick from drinking 
buttermilk, a mile is very far. So I asked for a nearer hotel 


106 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


or rooming house. He walked down to the corner with me, 
and gave me explicit directions,—how to get to the Y. W. C. A. 
“where nothing will trouble you.” Surely he had read and 
taken to heart Aunt Somebody’s advice to lone women! And 
that long “mile and over” stretched between me and rest I 
wanted—oh, so much! for the buttermilk was still disagreeing 
with me, and the day had been frightfully hot, and my feet 
ached so! 

A little farther along, I saw a “Furnished Rooms” sign 
on a neat little house, and stopped. All their rooms were 
full, but the daughter of the house let me have her room for 
the night. Very pleasant people, who have just moved here. 

This bed looks so nice and comfy; it makes me think of 
one night recently, when there were two matresses on the bed, 
both were worn thin in the middle, and the springs too much 
in evidence; the whole bed sloped to the middle, so I couldn’t 
get away from the insistent coiled wires. And not only was 
the bed bum that night, but I had a bum breakfast the next 
morning. 

Did not get to the post office to-night: too tired to know or 
care where it is. 

A whole flock of blackbirds flew ahead of me along the 
telephone wires for a long way. Saw other, small, flocks of 
birds. They say that’s a sign of an early fall—the birds flock¬ 
ing in the middle of the summer. If so, it behooves me to get 
across the mountains before the snow comes. And the Rockies, 
even, are some hundreds of miles off yet. 

The corn farmers say we need rain; the wheat farmers 
say “rain is bad for the harvest.” “The harvest” through here 
always means wheat. The big threshing machines are blowing 
out the wheat chaff into tremendous big heaps. The last 
two years have been dreadfully dry through this country, and 
in the winters they fed this refuse from the threshing machines 
to the horses, keeping the good feed for the cows. Some of 
the Illinois farmers are beginning to plant alfalfa, and it has 
done well. 


DECATUR, ILLINOIS 


Tuesday , July 27.- 

To-day is the first day I have lost from sickness. 

Last night, I was hardly in bed, when I got dreadfully 
ill. Lay awake all night; by daylight this morning felt better. 
Decided to sleep till ten or eleven o’clock, and then make a 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


107 


very short day—perhaps ten miles, if I could find a stopping 
place that near. 

After I got to sleep, a player-piano started up. It stopped. 
I was awakened again by a lot of nsise made in cleaning up 
the room next to mine. Quiet again and I once more dozed, 
when the player-piano again began. About 9 o’clock, gave 
up trying to sleep, dressed and went out. 

Post Office at 9:30 a.m.; then to restaurant and ordered 
breakfast, but couldn’t even take a sup of coffee by the time 
it got on the table. Felt queer and weak,—really more queer 
than weak. Went to the Y. W. C. A. for a room; they didn’t 
have any, so sent me here to this little hotel; it’s quiet, so far 
as street noises go. Told the clerk I wanted to sleep all day 
and not be disturbed. Went to sleep. 

Insistent ringing of telephone: told the clerk I couldn’t 
talk to anyone. 

Dozed again: telephone rang, and kept on ringing: a 
woman from one of the Decatur papers; talked to her on the 
phone, and tried to sleep again (it was then after one o’clock 
in the afternoon). 

At 2:15 I was awakened by the maid banging her sweeper 
round the hall. When she got away, went to sleep again, 
only to be woke up by the maid banging things round in the 
next room. 

Didn’t sleep any more. Got up, very shakey, at 5:30 and 
went to the Y. W. C. A. for supper. Couldn’t eat. I’m be¬ 
ginning to think it was heat exhaustion, and not buttermilk. 

Decatur is a pretty little city. Trees on all the streets; 
reminds me of Washington, D. C., outside of the business sec¬ 
tion. 

Bright moonlight these nights. Think it was full last 
night. 


DECATUR TO MECHANICSBURG, ILLINOIS 

Wednesday , July 28 . 

When I went to get up at 5:30 a.m., I fairly held my 
breath to see if I was going to get wobbly, as I did the day be¬ 
fore every time I sat up. Much to my surprise, I felt all right. 

Had a breakfast of puffed wheat, milk, and coffee. Shall 
no longer make myself eat the greasy potatoes and meat I 
so often get; have been doing so, because I felt I ought to. 
But no more. A bad attack of indigestion might keep me back 


108 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON D. C. 

long enough to prevent my getting across the mountain ranges 
before deep snow. 

Got started from Decatur at 6:25 a.m. Cloudy nearly 
all day, except at noon, when I was resting on a porch. A few 
small up and down hills, just out of Decatur. On one of them 
was a man in a field, talking to some men in a team on the 
road. He raised his hat: 

“Good morning, Miss Hill.” 

“Good morning—but why ‘Miss Hill*?” 

Said he had “seen it in the Decatur Review” and “just 
thought” it was me. Circumstantial evidence being strong, 
I owned up to being myself. 

After a few miles, the road levelled out again, with now 
and then one of the right-angled turns that all country roads 
have in Illinois. If one could only go directly west, without 
the *4 or *4 or 1 mile or 1^ or more miles direct north or south 
turns. 

Several hours later, a telephone man (who also said he 
had seen of my walk in the paper) said I was 13 miles out of 
Decatur; and that Mechanicsburg, between 18 and 20 miles 
ahead, was the only town the Pike’s Peak road went through 
before Springfield. Says the natives never count the north 
and south angles in the roads in reckoning distance—I had al¬ 
ready discovered that. 

About 11:30 I asked a woman who was standing at her 
gate if I could come in and rest and get water. She asked me to 
stay to dinner. Her father and mother had passed me in 
an automobile, and her father had told them I “must be the 
woman the Decatur Review had the piece about.” Stayed 
there till 2 o’clock. They told me Decatur was 14 miles, and 
Mechanicsburg 14 miles ahead. 

On one of the slight hills, an oil-team man and a farmer 
were talking. The farmer asked questions about my walk; 
surmise they, too, had “seen it in the paper.” Had one drink 
of water between this farm house and Mechanicsburg, but didn’t 
tarry—hiked right along. Later the oil-team over took me, 
and I used up some more time talking, after declining to ride. 
Both these men said Mechanicsburg was too far to reach by 
night. 

Got to Mechanicsburg a few minutes before 7. Asked a 
woman sitting on a porch w T here the post office was. Got 
postmaster’s signature at 7 p.m., and asked him where I could 
get a room for the night. He wanted to know if I was 
going to pay for it! On being assured of this, he kindly went 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


100 


■with me back to the house where I had inquired for the post 
office. His first care was to tell that I would pay! No room¬ 
ing or boarding house in town, he said. It was kind of him to 
go with me. 

Shall count 31 miles for the day—as the mean between the 
28 miles some say, and the 34 others say. 

At one house where I stayed I got awfully sick. Asked the 
woman for peppermint, and she said she had only a little, and 
if I couldn’t get any at the store, she would let me have some. 
For a time I was too sick to walk to the store, or even to get up 
from the porch step. Later, after dark, I felt better and went 
to the store (which was neafr), and got some peppermint. Man¬ 
aged to drink a glass of milk, but couldn’t eat anything. 

At one house recently my room was on the street floor, with 
a pump and sink in it. There was a china pitcher and wash 
bowl in the room, evidently for appearance only: the lady 
asked me to wash in the graniteware wash basin in the sink! 
She set a little lamp on a little box, and said that as soon as 
I got in bed she wanted it. She called to me several times, 
before I got ready, to know if I was through with it; then she 
came in and got some water and the graniteware basin. I 
thought I might as well go to bed, and leave writing up my 
D. B. till another night. 

She took her lamp, and as she left the room, said she would 
open the two doors from my room into the front room before she 
went to bed. I asked her to leave them closed. 

“Perhaps you would like the one closed into the hall, too?” 
I think she was trying to be sarcastic; but I said, 

“Yes, please, if you don’t mind.” 

She shut it, bang! Lucky for me, too, as some one in a 
room off the hall snored, and the closed door softened the 
sound. 

The men through here seem patient, quiet, subdued creat¬ 
ures, that subside out of the conversation as soon as wifies 
begin to talk. 

MECHANIGSBURG TO SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS 

Thursday, July 29. 

Couldn’t sleep last night; something bit me, but it wasn’t 
mosquitoes, nor was it was the little bugs that sometimes fre¬ 
quent beds where weary travellers are supposed to rest. This 
morning, saw spiders around, and hard-shelled black bugs. I 
left my sneakers, across one of which a spider had spun his 


110 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


web in the night; for my new shoes have been water-soaked 
more than once now, and are no longer bright and nice. I 
will have that much less weight to carry. 

Up at the lunchroom they had the regulation ham and 
eggs, which I felt I couldn’t swallow. The lunchroom man 
said I could buy puffed wheat next door and eat it in his place. 
So I got a package, and got milk and coffee and a slice of 
toast in the lunchroom to go with it. 

Started at 7:15 a.m. Quite a number of small hills and 
curves in the road between Mechanicsburg and Springfield. 

At a corner where I lost the red and white banded poles, 
turned up a little way to the right to a house, to ask directions. 
Rested in the shade of a big tree. A boy and a girl talked to 
me. After a few minutes, the children’s mother came out, 
and asked me if I wanted to stay to dinner. I did—if she would 
let me pay, and she said, “Just as you like.” Asked if I want¬ 
ed to lie down; but I did not. The dinner was good—water¬ 
melon, too, the first I’ve had on the trip. This lady was very 
different from many of the people through Indiana and Illin¬ 
ois, to whom I have talked. She says she has always wanted 
to travel, and would be willing to walk, only she isn’t strong 
enough. Hopes to have a chance to see some of the country, 
after her two children grow up. She could understand my 
taking this walk. Most of the country people through these 
Iwo states can’t seem to understand it. The burden of their 
ideas in regard to such a walk is the question, 

“What do you get out of it?” 

I say I am learning lots, seeing the country and people; 
and they pipe up, 

*t?” <<BUt Why d ° y ° U Want t0 ' if y ° U d0n>t &et somethin £ out of 

I say I’ll get lots of beautiful scenery in Colorado and 
farther west. 

“But what’s the good if you don’t get something out of it?” 

Daily the same formula is gone through with—the women 
don’t understand. 

Came to Springfield by a road not the red and while pole 
one. They told me not only that this road was as short; but on 
the road I had turned off from to get to the house, was, at the 
corner, a cross dog; one who was indiscriminate in his cross¬ 
ness—bit men and women alike, when he felt like it. Some¬ 
times laid quiet, and other times flew at passers-by. I hadn't 
seen the dog when I turned off, and had no wish to pass that 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


111 


corner again. After getting to Springfield, picked up the 
banded poles once more. 

The Springfield postmaster signed at 5 p.m. He said 
there was no town to the west, near, that had a hotel, and 
that I’d better stay in Springfield for the night. That sound¬ 
ed like good advice, and here I am, though I had meant to go 
farther west. Had supper in the Y. W. C. A., and they sent 
me to this house for a room. This woman said her price was 
for “a room and hot bath.” The bath forgot to be hot, but 
the room will be cool—two windows, on different sides. 

Some horrible mud on the road to-day: 22 miles, they say, 
from Mechanicsburg to Springfield. 

Another State capital. It is in the coal mining district 
of the State; has an arsenal and large watch factory. Shaded 
streets. Lincoln lived here when he was elected President, 
and a cemetery a couple of miles out from the city contains 
Lis grave. 

A letter received here says: “According to the map, 

you are striding forward as if you had on seven-league boots.” 

SPRINGFIELD TO NEAR JACKSONVILLE, ILLINOIS 

Friday , July 30. 

Got breakfast in a restaurant— puffed rice, milk, coffee, 
and cantaloupe. Find it hard to make myself eat anything, 
which makes me uneasy. 

Started at 6:25, along the tree-shaded streets of Springfield. 
Went with the red and white banded poles to Capital and down 
Second Street and out to the edge of the Park. No bands on 
poles through the park. It is a beautiful park, with a river 
running through it. Roads and paths built of what looks like 
crumbled brick mixed with earth, the brick-reddish color and 
the green of grass and trees adding to its beauty. Happened, 
.after much crossing of grass and following of footpaths and 
roadways, to come out of park just where the banded poles 
begin again. 

Many curves and turns in the road to-day, with small up 
and down hills, and long flat reaches of roadway. 

Near noon, asked a rural letter-carrier where I could buy 
a, dinner. 

“Anyone through here will give you dinner, and won’t 
take anything for it, either.” 

We were at the gate of a house, and I asked a young girl 
there. She went in to her mother, and apparently they waited 


112 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

for the letter-carrier to go on; but he waited, confident I would 
see he was right. After many trips back and forth to look out, 
she said yes, I could have dinner. Then the postman went on. 
I sat on the porch, and the woman brought out a yellow paper 
bag with two thick slices of bread and butter in it, and jam 
on them,—all messed up in the bag. I said I wanted to buy 
a lunch or dinner, but couldn’t eat butter and jam mixed, and 
wanted a drink of water. Then the woman brought two hunks 
of bread out, and some new soft butter on the edge of a plate. 
Before I could get a bite, swarms of flies lit on it and tried 
tc eat the butter off the bread. I laid it down, with some 
change which I told the daughter would pay her mother for 
her trouble, and departed, luncheonless. Tried at several other 
houses to buy bread and milk, or anything, but the women all 
said they didn’t have anything in the house. Left one house 
where the man and his wife were quarrelling as to the matter. 
He wanted her to let me have some bread and milk, and she 
wouldn’t—said there wasn’t any. 

“Where’s this morning’s milk gone?” 

“I haven’t any,” wifie asserted. 

“But where’s it gone to?” 

“I haven’t any.” 

The same questions and answers, getting louder, as far as 
I could hear. 

Went on to Berlin, and in the store (which is also the post- 
office) got cococola and four oranges; ate three and put the 
fourth up my sweater sleeve. Got assistant postmaster’s signa¬ 
ture here, at 12:30 p.m. 

Didn’t go back to the banded-poles street, but came on 
toward Jacksonville on another road. Just outside of Berlin, 
they told me Jacksonville was 17.8 miles. First time anyone 
has been particular about the fractions of a mile. Left Berlin 
at 1:10, to try to make Jacksonville. Did fairly well (lots of 
curves and turns in the road—wonder if these are counted in 
the mileage), until within about six miles of Jacksonville, when 
suddenly a heavy shower came down. Saw it coming just as 
I passed a large house on a hill; but the big house had a dog, 
and a little house was just below. Went into the little house, 
and stayed until the shower was over. 

Got soaked during the minute’s time from the rain began 
till I got into the little house. 

With the encouragement of the advice of the little-house 
woman, came back here to the big house, and asked to stay 
all night; as it was by that time evident I could not get to 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


113 


Jacksonville before dark. The woman of the house agreed. 
Had a good supper; and here I am, in an immense big room, 
with much woodwork—the wood of doors and cupboards of an 
unusual grain, on account of its age, probably. 

The house was built in 1348, and was one of the inns on 
the old State Road, which, before that, was an Indian trail. 
When the trail was made into a road, instead of straightening 
it or making a new road, the old trail was merely fenced. 
This story I heard yesterday; it is true, too, for to-day I felt 
the Indians stalking along,—five figures with blankets over 
their heads and shoulders, winding north or south as the trail 
led, to avoid thickets of undergrowth or a bog in the woods. 
Now the thickets and bogs have disappeared, but the turns 
remain. 

Had the Indian trail story from several different people, 
and again to-night from the man of the house,—a short, erect, 
weather-beaten man, who was on a cattle ranch in the West in 
1900 and 1901. Knows Colorado and Wyoming, and the coun¬ 
try through there. 

At one corner was a sign, “Springfield 25 miles, Jackson¬ 
ville 10 miles.” This house, I am told, is 6 miles east of Jack¬ 
sonville; that makes 29 miles for me to-day,—section miles 
undoubtedly, with no allowance for up and down hills. 

When the Ocean-to-Ocean road (the Pike’s Peak road) 
was under consideration, people living on both of the east- 
west roads wanted it. Those on this road (which didn’t get 
it) think now it is just as well, because they “want an oiled 
road anyway,” and this road is now oiled for three miles this 
side of Jacksonville. 

Am hearing stories of people who have been bitten by 
dogs; not pleasant. Also, more weird stories of Kansas hot 
winds: when these winds blow, people have to go into their 
houses and shut windows and doors; and although it is suffo¬ 
catingly hot, the outside wind is hotter. At times these hot 
winds last for two or three days, in which case the corn is 
burned, the leaves shrivel up, and the crop is lost past hope. 

“And what will you do if such a hot wind catches you?” 
they ask. 

It doesn’t occur to many of my encouragers that the evils 
of the road, and its dangers, may pass me by. 

EAST OF JACKSONVILLE TO EXETER, ILLINOIS 

Saturday , July 31. 

After I went to bed last night, another heavy thunder- 


114 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


storm came up. In shutting the windows—the rain was driv¬ 
ing in and making pools of water on the floor—I got soaked. 
During the storm, an auto drove into the yard, but went away 
after the rain stopped. Slept well—rather unusual. 

Got off after breakfast, about 7:15. Roads muddy and 
slippery. The oiled road begins 3.4 miles east of Jacksonville. 
Just before the Jacksonville station on two railroads, passed 
the School for the Blind. In the station, tried to clean the mud 
off my boots a little, and got two glasses of buttermilk. 

Posted D. B’s. in Jacksonville. The assistant postmaster 
signed for me at 10:20 a.m., and gave me a written route: to go 
out of Jacksonville by the “Mound Road.” Then, “Due west 
on Mound Road, then Merritt and Exeter to River, cross at 
Valley City, then to Griggsville.” I was to take the railroad 
over the river bottom to the river, and cross on the railroad 
bridge to Valley City. No other kind of bridge is over the 
liver, without going many miles north or south and coming 
back to my line of travel again, which he thought would add 
about fifty miles to my trip. He assured me I could walk 
across the railroad bridge “in ten minutes”—me! walk a rail- 
roa*d bridge across a river for ten minutes! However, this 
is one of the bridges I don’t dare to cross till I come to it— 
just writing of it makes me shakey. 

A little over a mile east of Merritt stopped for a drink. 
An old lady 87 years old was there. Her nephew (or grand¬ 
son) runs the place, and gave me four apples that lay on a 
table, to “take along”. Later, the old lady herself thought of 
them and went to get them for me and was evidently disap¬ 
pointed that they had already been given to me,—as was I, 
when I saw her disappointment. 

Saw some haying being done to-day—building great high 
stacks, with crane and pulley and horse. 

Jacksonville makes me think of a New England village 
grown into a big town, with its large elm trees on both sides 
of some of the streets. It had the delightful homey feeling, 
walking along the streets, that New England towns give me. 
Secretary Bryan lived there, and went to college near. His 
wife was the daughter of a man living just out of the city. 

Rainy weather to-day; made only about 22 miles. 

Am writing this out-doors, sitting in a lawn swing,—which 
proves I got here long before dark. The house where I am 
was my third attempt to get a room for the night. 

At one house to-day, the lady talked to me glibly of face 
lotions and cold cream. The drinking well was at the back 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


115 


corner of her house; the pipe from the sink emptied out just 
beside the well, in a deep hole worn by the water from the sink. 
The well was the ordinary type of country well, lined with loose 
stones, without cement. Next above the well was a little shed; 
next above that the henhouse; and above the henhouse, the 
toilet. The last mentioned is highest on the little slope to¬ 
wards the house and well, the others coming “in the order 
mentioned”, and close together. Is this the country that is 
“sanitating” the Philippines and Cuba? 

EXETER TO EAST OF BARRY, ILLINOIS 

Sunday , August 1. 

Got away about 7:45 a.m. Was told that after I crossed 
“Griggs Hill” I would come to “the bottoms.” 

“How shall I know Griggs Hill?” 

“There’s only one hill like Griggs Hill.” 

I suspected a certain hill of being Griggs Hill, when I 
started down it, but scorned my own suspicion. Now, I know 
it must have been Griggs, because it was the only hill like it. 
A sharp little pitch at the top, but nothing so bad as their 
tones implied. At the bottom of the hill, a long way across 
the bottom lands and into a little strip of woods on the east 
bank of the Illinois River. The wagon road winds through 
these woods till it comes to the railroad bridge, by which is 
the engineer’s house; and there are steps to go up to the rail¬ 
road. 

I went up the steps—and came down again. Some men 
were just crossing the trestle over the river, but they were 
too far off to say, “Take me, too.” I sat talking to the engin¬ 
eer’s wife, who said that usually lots of people walked across 
on Sundays. One man ran across it from the other side. 
She asked him to walk back over with me, explaining that I 
couldn’t take the ferry over (there was a ferry not far away); 
but he was in a rush to catch the ferry boat back. Perhaps 
he had bet that he could run across the bridge when the ferry 
started over, and catch it back. 

After an hour and a half, and no one else crossing in 
either direction, two young men came over from the west side. 
She asked one of them to walk back over it with me. It is a 
long trestle and quite high, the middle of it over the Illinois 
River of course. I was glad when we were across. 

Through Valley (locally, Valley City) to Griggsville, where 
I had lunch. (Did the Griggs of the Hill emigrate to this side 


116 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


of the river, and start this town?) Had “toasties” and milk 
for lunch, which made the man ask if I had stomach trouble. 
It seems it’s a common complaint through these States. 

At New Salem, was told it would be nearer to go to Barry 
by going one mile south and then 12 miles west, than to follow 
the red-and-white-pole road. Bo I took that way. All up hill 
and down, but not very long hills. Just as I turned after the 
“1 mile south”, a thunder shower began. I stopped to put on 
my raincoat, and a woman at the house on the corner came 
round to the front porch to look, but she never said to come 
on the porch out of the rain to put it on. It rained hard. I 
suspect my raincoat leaks, for my shirtwaist got soaking wet. 

It was very hot, even in the rain, and I couldn’t seem to get 
on. My feet dragged, and the rain kept me back. 

Five miles east of Barry, just after coming down a long 
hill, I asked a man how far it was to Barry. He suggested 
it was getting dark, and I had better stay at some house along 
the road. On my doubting if people would let me stay, he said 
they were “the best people in the world” along there and sug¬ 
gested I try at a little house at the bottom of the hill. 

I went there, and explained to the woman. She had seen 
the man talking to me, and asked why his people didn’t let 
me stay at their house—just up the hill I had come down; 
said his wife often gave meals, and kept men over night. So 
a boy from the little house went back up the hill with me (the 
big house had a cross dog that was friends with the boy), 
and the lady at the big house let me stay, after considerable 
question asking. I didn’t mention that her husband had ad¬ 
vised me to stay at some house along the road, and neither did 
she. Nor, when he came into the room at suppertime, did he 
speak of having seen me before. 

Earlier in the afternoon, at a turn in the road, opposite 
a small house, a big black hound stood on a little hillside with 
his master. After I passed, he flew at me. The man and 
a woman in the house both yelled at him at once, and the man 
drove him back into the yard, the dog growling all the time. 
As he sprang after me, I heard the snarl and turned so quickly 
my little black bag swung out at him. In his surprise, he 
stopped suddenly and fell back on his haunches (does a’dog 
have haunches?); suppose he thought that black thing coming 
at him was dangerous. Here at the house where I am staying 
to-night they tell me he is cross, but old; that when not chained, 
he is usually attached to a heavy stick by a chain, so that he 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


117 


can’t chase people. Lucky for me it was Sunday and that the 
man himself was at home when the dog flew at me. 

Between New Salem and East Hannibal, on the road that 
didn’t get the red and white bands on the telephone poles,— 
the Commission deciding on the “other road” as the Pike’s 
Peak Highway,— the poles have been painted with a red tri¬ 
angle inside a white circle, to show the way to the ferry. 
The man whose black hound flew at me, did part of the paint¬ 
ing. I find myself somewhat interested in these road affairs. 

The man here strongly disapproves of my walk. Says it 
is not a trip for a woman to take. He talked so much against 
it that at last I said walking was easier than housework and 
cooking, where a woman was on her feet all day, and didn’t 
have the fresh air that I had. 

“But it’s a woman’s place to do those things.” Biff-bang! 

Couldn’t see why a woman should want to walk. 

“If it was young men, wanting to see the country and 
scenery, it would be different”—when I had spoken of the 
scenery I would see farther west. Women should stay home 
and knit, I suppose. 

Also says that he doesn’t believe the various stories that 
people who stop there over night tell him; that of course he 
listens to them all, but, 

“I’m from Missouri—they have to show me.” 

I asked him if he wanted to see my letters that showed my 
reasons for walking. He evidently did, and read them, com¬ 
menting,— 

“Anyone can write letters.” 

Somewhere, some one, has said that every man judges 
others by himself. 

About 25 miles to-day. 

EAST OF BARRY TO NEAR EAST HANNIBAL, ILLINOIS 

Monday, August 2. 

(Written August 3: for reason —see below.) 

After breakfast got off at 7:30. 

All up and down hill to Barry, where the postmaster signed 
at 9 a.m. Says he doesn't see how I get across the places where 
the streams cross the roads. After leaving Barry, I found 
several of the places he referred to, where, instead of the 
roads crossing the streams on bridges, the streams cross the 
roads without bridges. First time I’ve met this condition on 


118 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


the trip. At Barry, got some oranges and lemons in a store, 
where the storekeeper was much interested in my walk. 

All the way, little wooded hills were everywhere I looked. 
Kinderhook is built on the side of one of them, and most of 
the trees have been left—for a wonder. It makes a delightful 
little town. West from Kinderhook the road led around the low¬ 
er edges of these little hills. 

In a store there, I was told to take the “bluff road”; that 
it was longer than the “bottom road,” but the latter would 
be overflowed. I said I would take the shorter one, and was 
told that the red and white banded poles went the bluff road; 
so I took the one without the poles, and found it was really the 
bluff road. Now I wonder if they made the mistake intention¬ 
ally, so that I would go by the bluff road, as they advised. 

When I was about six miles east of the Mississippi River, 
and, by the time it had taken, should have been 19 or 20 miles 
from my starting point, another thunderstorm came up. 
Passed a house where a white-haired old lady was in the yard, 
just as the rain began, and asked if I might go up on her 
porch till the storm was over. She looked at me, and walked 
around back of the house. Learned later that she was deaf; 
but even so, she must have known, as I stood still and spoke 
to her, what I was asking. And even not, common humanity 
would have made her ask me to come up on the porch out of 
the rain and thunder. 

Went on to a tiny little house, where a red-haired young 
woman told me to come in. It was a one-room cottage, and 
housed a two-year old little girl and a five months old baby, be¬ 
sides the father (who was away at work) and mother. The 
room had one door and one window—the kind of house one 
reads of, with a bed in one corner, a stove on the side opposite 
the door, a table by the window, and a few chairs. (After the 
husband came home he explained that they had furniture 
stored, but no room in this house for it.) 

And it rained. The road in front of the house filled with 
water: the roads here are lower than the fields on the sides. 

And it poured rain. The thunder and lightning were 
fierce—yes, that's the right word. The crashes took my 
breath away, and the brilliant flashes filled the little room. 
The young woman told stories of people being struck by the 
lightning. She herself had been struck a couple of years be¬ 
fore, when the oldest child was a small baby, and had lain un¬ 
conscious for hours. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


119 


And it rained, and thundered, and the lightning was ap¬ 
palling. 

Then, when the sky got a little lighter, and the rain came 
down less hard, I spoke of going on. But the road was a 
river, and she said I couldn’t possibly get through. This was 
proved by an auto trying to rush through, and getting stalled 
in front of the house, with the water up to the body of the car. 
So she said I must wait till her husband came home. 

Husband came,—very tall young man, big boned, with yel¬ 
low hair and eyebrows and eyelashes. He said going out was 
impossible; that the water would be up under my arms. I 
wanted to go back to the gray-haired lady’s house (the only 
house anywhere near), and tell her she must let me stay all 
night; but he said that even in bad winter snowstorms people 
had come to their house, having been refused shelter at other 
houses. 

Before he came home, the little wife told me she had asked 
me in out of the storm because her husband had always told her 
never to send anyone away in a storm, or in winter. He had 
tramped much looking for work, and knew people through that 
section who would turn anyone away in the worst kind of 
weather. So he refused to let me leave. 

EAST OF EAST HANNIBAL, ILLINOIS, TO 
WITHERS MILLS, MISSOURI 

Tuesday , August 3. 

Last night, when the young couple in the tiny one-room 
house absolutely refused to allow me to go out into the then 
knee-deep water of the road to try to find another place to 
stay, I helplessly surrendered to their kindness, faintly wond¬ 
ering how they would manage the stowing away of five people, 
which they assured me they had done a number of times be¬ 
fore. 

At the foot of their bed, on the floor in front of the door 
they put the under one of two mattresses from their bed. 
A quilt hung over the foot of the bed, made a curtain between 
the two sleeping apartments. The one window was closed 
tight. At my request, the door was left open for a while— 
much to their fear that I would take cold sleeping in front of 
it; but during the night, he awoke and, after cussing the mos¬ 
quitoes for a few minutes, told her to get up and close it, 
which she did. The lamp burned all night. Some half- 
drowned baby chickens, rescued from the rain, peeped in a tin 


120 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


box under the stove; mosquitoes by the dozen sang all round 
(most of these were owing to my having had the door open, 
probably). The baby cried a number of times in the night, 
and the little girl several times. This morning, the young 
woman told me I was just like her husband—never woke up 
all night. It would have been cruel to tell her I hadn’t gone 
to sleep, so couldn’t wake up. 

When the alarm went off, long before daylight, I hurriedly 
dressed sitting on the mattress, and went out doors. Kept 
expecting her to call me. Finally, when I knew he had had 
ample time to dress and shave, and it being quite chilly in the 
early morning fog, I went to the door: 

“May I come in?” 

“Oh, yes; he is still asleep; he never gets up till breakfast 
is ready.” 

And I had shivered out in the morning mist for half an 
hour! Later, I sauntered out again, and watched the stars 
for a few minutes, till I heard him open the door and say, 

“Where did the woman go?” 

“The woman” came back and we had breakfast. He left 
for work, and I went to a store not very far up the road, and 
bought some oranges for the sake of getting a five dollar bill 
changed. I had used up everything smaller, expecting to get 
to Hannibal last night, where I could get change. She in¬ 
sisted she didn’t want pay, but of course I left it; she had 
told me that at the job he had then he was getting only $6.00 
a week. 

Came away in a drizzling rain, along a very muddy road. 
At Seehorn, the little place where the store was, I took the 
Quincy Railroad tracks to the next station (3 miles); then 
turned down to East Hannibal on the other railroad (5 miles),— 
though had the wagon road been passable, it would have been 
only six miles to East Hannibal. 

“When you get to the Y, you will see the bridge; don’t 
turn the wrong way.” 

It was misty at first, and soon a thick fog settled down, 
a thick wet fog, the kind that shuts out everything twenty 
feet away. At first the street and railroad ran parallel, and 
a man in a wagon called to me that I was going in the wrong 
direction. I wondered if in the fog I had really turned the 
wrong way; but after a time it occured to me what he meant; 
that if I had been going the other way I could have had a ride— 
in that sense, I was going in the wrong direction. Surely glad 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


121 


"his remark didn’t turn me back, and so add a few miles to the 
day’s walk! 

I passed some section hands on the railroad, and shortly 
after, heard steps coming down the track back of me. Glanced 
back, couldn’t see anyone. The fog was so thick that the 
section hands had disappeared in it. The man seemed to be 
hurrying; the footsteps got nearer. I glanced back again: a 
man was there. A minute more, and I stooped, pretending to 
button my raincoat, so as to see back without seeming to turn 
round: He was near, and was feeling in his pocket. Suppose 
he was getting out his knife! I stooped to tie my shoe, which 
gave me another chance to look back of me. He had a big 
knife in his hand, and was just opening the blade! A few 
steps more, and he was very close—and I turned round—he 
shouldn’t stab me in the back, anyway! He passed me, with a 
genial “Goodmorning,” knife in hand—cutting tobacco. 

Weeds—soaking wet weeds!—in the railroad tracks be¬ 
tween Seehorn and Falls Creek. A movement in the weeds, 
and there, right at my feet, a long slim green and yellow snake. 
We both jumped and hustled—but in the same direction. I 
raced breathlessly down the track—so did the snake. I won, but 
it wasn’t much of a win, for the snake paused to curl himself 
up over the rail to get away. 

There was a trestle over a stream, and I managed to cross 
it, one foot dragging after the other. 

East Hannibal didn’t look very inviting, and I could easily 
believe that, as I had been told, it wasn’t a place I wanted to 
be after dark. 

The bridge from East Hannibal to the west side of the 
Mississippi has one railroad track in the middle. It is just 
about wide enough for two teams to pass, providing they both 
use part of the railroad track. Trains, teams, and foot passen¬ 
gers all go over the same bridge. When a train wants to go 
over, the signal men at the ends of the bridge signal to the 
teams (if any are coming) and they have to wait till the train 
crosses. At the Missouri side, the train takes to a tunnel, 
though some of the railroad tracks run along the Missouri bank 
of the river. 

The Mississippi here is wide, and, looking north, is very 
attractive, with green islands (or points of land), cutting the 
water. The river winds so that it is impossible to tell if they 
are islands or little points of land out from the banks. But 
more than being the great Mississippi that divides the United 
States, it is the river of Tom Sawyer; and about a mile down 


122 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

the bank is the cave running along under the banks and even 
under the water, the like of which no boys but Hannibal boys 
ever had, I suppose. And certainly no one but Mark Twain 
could have immortalized it. I wanted to stay here and explore 
it, and read Tom and Huck all over again, and spy on their 
hiding places. But prudence bobbed up its unwelcome head, 
reminding me that I am three days late getting here, and there* 
are high mountains and wide deserts to cross before snowtime. 

After crossing the bridge, I walked down the “River Road’* 
to Hannibal. Went into the depot there, and changed my stock¬ 
ings,—dripping from mud and wet weeds,—and tried to clean 
up a bit. Then to the Post Office. After lunch and shopping, 
back to the Post Office. 

There a most genial Postmaster signed, at 1:15 p.m. He 
has had this Post Office for only a few months, but for many 
years was Secretary to a Congressman in Washington. He was 
interested in my walk, and called in his secretary, who tramps 
the country round here a good deal. When I mentioned the 
badness of the Kansas roads,—have been hearing a great deal 
of Kansas roads as well as Kansas winds,—the Postmaster said 
the roads there are just as good as the Missouri roads; got the 
impression he is partial to Kansas. 

A man in the Post Office warned me against the Missouri 
dogs; says they are treacherous; that they will let a person 
pass them, and then spring at his back. This afternoon, a man 
on the road told me the same thing—“don’t trust the Missouri 
dogs behind your back.” For several days past, in Illinois, 
I have been hearing of mad dogs. This new warning increases 
my comfort! I can hardly expect to cross the whole country 
without trouble from dogs, though I have safely crossed the 
width of three whole states and fragments of three others. 

Left the Post Office about 2 p.m., and came west on Broad¬ 
way, following poles with red and white bands. After a mile or 
more the road narrowed and changed to a hard sand road, 
marked, on square signs, 


H. & S. J. 

STATE 
HIGH WAY 

The word “State” in black letters in the centre of a white cross; 
the rest of the lettering white, on black background. 

When I got here to Withers Mills, the Postmaster signed 
at 4:57 p.m., and suggested I should go to a house where thejr 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


123 


sometimes let men stay. The door opened about three inches, 
and the woman said: 

“No!” 

I went back to the Post Office, and he suggested my coming 
here. The woman, maybe unconsciously, is making me realize 
that she took me in only to keep me from being without a place 
to stay; though from the talk of her husband, men who come 
along stay over night here. There are some small girls in the 
family, and for the first time, it sounds delightful to hear 
“brother” and “sister”, instead of ‘John’ and ‘Alice.’ The 
mother calls the children by their names; but the sons call one 
another “brother” indiscriminately, and they call both girls 
“sister”. 

Withers Mills is eight miles by road from Hannibal, they 
say — but only 6 by railroad. From the house I stayed 
at last night, to Seehorn by wagon road; then the 8 miles from 
there to Hannibal, partly by railroad, and, after crossing the 
Mississippi, by wagon road here. Not much over 19 miles to¬ 
day, I am afraid. 

Was three days later than I hoped to be, getting to Hanni¬ 
bal, because of staying over one day in Decatur, and of the 
heavy thunder storms that came up several other days, when I 
ran for cover. I don’t mind walking in the rain; but thunder 
and lightning send me scurrying indoors—if I can find a door 
that will let me in. 

Am giving St. Joseph, Missouri, as my next address. 

Did quite a little shopping in Hannibal; among other 
things, bought a new shirtwaist—my heavy gray silk one that 
I have been wearing is getting holey in the sleeves. My new 
one is a gray striped gingham,—and now I fear the sun will 
blister through, it being rather coarse weave, so I’ll keep it for 
“evenings” (!) after my day’s walk is done. 

WITHERS MILLS TO HUNNEWELL, MISSOURI 

Wednesday, August 4. 

Lady last night told me breakfast would be at 6, because 
one son would have to go to town. I got up soon after 5, to be 
sure of being ready in time. A little before 6, the lady came 
to wake me; at 6:40, she sent the little girl up to call me to 
breakfast, which was ready at 7. 

Got away at 7.20. Walked steadily, now and then shaking 
sand out of my shoes, but no stop for rest, till 2:50, when I 
reached Monroe City. Hilly at first after leaving Withers 


124 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


Mills, but later flat country. By railroad it is 25 miles from 
Hannibal to Monroe City, and Withers Mills is 6 railroad miles 
west of Hannibal. So I probably walked 21 miles from 7:30 a.m. 
to 2:50 p.m. Think I did, for I hiked right along the wagon road, 
which was certainly longer than the railroad. There was a 
chilly west wind; no sun. Wore my sweater from time of start¬ 
ing till after I left Monroe City. 

Monroe City is a small place, with large trees close to¬ 
gether, except right in the centre of the town. Ate at a nice 
little restaurant there; then to the post office, where the Post¬ 
master signed at 3:20 p.m. 

I came on to Hunnewell. Level road, not much longer than 
the railroad,—perhaps a mile longer. Left Monroe City at 4:30, 
and got here at 7:20 (eight miles, I’m told). That makes 
29 miles to-day. 

Coming out of Monroe City, passed the “State Fair Ground” 
and also “Parkview Farm”—with a parklike lawn stretching 
far back from the road to the house. 

A mile east of Hunnewell, a farmer was just coming out of 
his house as I passed, and we walked to town together. His dog 
was very snarly, and didn’t obey his master a bit. Would run 
ahead and then make detours to the side, coming up close be¬ 
hind us with a snarl; repeated the performance at intervals 
all the way into town. I told the man his friends in town would 
ask him who that queer looking woman with him was, and he 
said, “They surely will.” 

Where I am staying is a one-story building. The woman 
came into my room, to make the bed. She took off the under 
sheet and put the top sheet already on the bed, for the under 
one for me. I said; 

“That sheet has been slept on.” 

“No, it hasn’t!” 

“Well, it’s been slept in, or under.” 

“Why, yes,” in surprise. 

Then she looked at me a moment; yanked the sheet off and 
went out and got a fresh one. I hope it has not been used be¬ 
fore, and it looks clean; but it may have been only “pressed 
out,” like the bed linen in another town. 

I am trying to keep warm in my raincoat, with the bed 
spread wrapped round me. Some change from the dreadful 
hot weather of the past two months! 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


125 


HUNNEWELL TO CLARENCE, MISSOURI 

Thursday , August 5. 

Left Hunnewell at 7:20 a.m. Certainly cheap rates here; 
and yet the landlady seemed to expect criticism for she fore¬ 
stalled it by explaining that the rates she charged me are what 
she charges “travelling people”, “though other people pay less.” 

Went into the telegraph office at one of the stations, and, 
though the Western Union sign was out, they said they didn’t 
take telegrams—that the other depot did. But I waited till 
I got to Shelbina at noon to telegraph for $50.00 to be sent to 
St. Joseph, that I may have money to alleviate my hunger and 
thirst. 

A winding road, and lots of small hills. In one place, 
down hill through a woodsy little grove. Just before the bridge 
over Salt River (why “Salt”?) the road was overflowed for sev¬ 
eral hundred feet; took off shoes and stockings and waded 
through. Horrid soft mud bottom. Water at the deepest 
part came over my knees. Sat down on the road (only place to 
sit) after getting across, and was busily putting on my shoes 
and stockings, when I heard a call. On the Hunnewell side 
was a man and a motorcycle; wanted to know about the road be¬ 
yond; took him some time to understand that I had just come 
through the water, and knew nothing as yet of “the road be¬ 
yond.” He took my word that the water was too deep for his 
motorcycle, unless he could carry it, and he didn’t try to get 
through. Farther along, places in the road were very muddy— 
deep mud. 

A little gray-bearded farmer overtook me, and we walked 
to Lakenan together—the last mile on the railroad. Then I 
took to the wagon road again—one mile of railroad was quite 
enough. 

Got to Shelbina about 12.30. Ate dinner, had postmaster 
sign at 1:40, and started on again about 2:15. At the restaur¬ 
ant, the plates were compartment plates, ridges dividing the 
meat and potatoes, which were in the largest compartment, 
from the salad and beans, which were in two smaller compart¬ 
ments. First time I have ever seen plates like these, although, 
since starting, I surely have been in lots of lunch rooms and 
small restaurants. The dinner was good, until—the proverbial 
fly in the ointment, only this time the fly was in the salad. 
Thank fortune, it was at the end and not the beginning that I 
found it, or I would have gone dinnerless. Wasted time talking 


126 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


to a man who came into the restaurant; also spent some time 
talking to the postmaster and a friend of his. 

Was told it was 13 miles from Hunnewell to Shelbina; it 
took me five hours. Of course, there was the delay of water 
over the road. From Shelbina came on here to Clarence—13 
railroad miles, and must have been a couple longer by road. 
Got here about 7—before the sun set. I notice that where there 
is any way of checking up the miles, I am making three an 
hour quite easily, including the stops to shake sand out of my 
shoes, etc. To-day, about 28 miles and not very tired. And 
less than two months ago, I couldn’t walk two miles without 
resting; and up to not many days ago,—rather nights ago,— 
the nerve-pains in the soles of my feet kept me awake! Is it 
merely the cooler weather, or am I getting hardened? 

From Shelbina to Clarence, the road has only a few little 
hills. Fewer cornfields through here, and the grain cut in many 
places, so that I can sometimes see a mile or two across the 
fields. Recently, the high corn has shut me in on the roads. 
Also, more pasture land through here. 

A cool west wind blew all day, though this afternoon got 
pretty warm—too warm for comfort. 

Some people I met and talked to to-day, on learning I came 
from Washington, asked me if I knew a certain man there. 
They consider Washington, apparently, just a small town where 
everyone knows everyone else. I knew of the man—as who does 
not?—though not acquainted personally with him, which sur¬ 
prised them. Said he was “raised” in their place; that he only 
went through the fourth grade, and then left school and went 
to work. One young man said he remembered the man, as a 
boy, getting jobs sawing wood round there to earn a living. 
Now why under the canopy did they want to tell anyone from 
Washington all that! They refused to entertain my point 
of view that the man was so much the more to be admired that 
he later educated himself and is now successfully holding the 
position he has. Is it jealousy that he succeeded in the larger 
world, while they are still in their home place? 

Very sleepy tonight. 

CLARENCE TO CALLAO, MISSOURI 

Friday , August 6. 

Got away from Clarence at 7:30 a.m.: through Anabel to 
Macon. The first five or six miles were level; then turns and 
twists and hills, to Macon. More of the same, from Macon here 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


127 


to Callao. About 24 miles by wagon road, which I kept all the 
way. Had I known enough, I could have cut off a little distance 
in Bevier. The road runs into the town, round through it, and 
out of it not far from where it goes in, I’m quite sure. 

At 11.15, stopped about two miles east of Macon, at a little 
“inn”, for dinner; stayed till 1:45. 

In Macon, where I mailed my D. B’s., the postmaster signed 
at 2:45. Much to my surprise, he said he had been expecting me 
to call. The Hannibal postmaster had given word of my walk 
to the Hannibal papers (they got some things about it wrong), 
and the Macon postmaster had promised to tell a Macon paper 
when I arrived. So he did; and when that man went out, an¬ 
other newspaper man came in. I said I had been trying not 
to get publicity, and one of them said, 

“Go ahead, roast the papers, I’ll be glad to have you.” 
From his point of view, it would make a better “story” if I 
did, but I said nay. I wonder what he will print. 

Left Macon about 3 o’clock. A mile and a half east of 
Bevier, a roadman in an automobile told me to take the railroad 
track from Bevier to Callao; that the river had overflowed, 
and I wouldn’t be able to get through the muddy roads. I was 
inclined to try to get through, however; and when I remembered 
that a river and a railroad mean a trestle on the railroad, I was 
resolved. So by road (mostly up and down hills) I came here. 
Crossed the East Fork of the Chariton River. In one place, an 
auto was struggling in the mud, but got through; a foot passer¬ 
by would have had no trouble to get over. 

At this “hotel”, they wouldn’t give me a room till the man 
himself came in,—“they” being his wife and daughter. They 
rang a bell for him, but that not having the desired effect, sent 
after him, and he came. 

“I want to get a room.” A pause, while he stared at me. 

“Yes, but it’ll cost you fifty cents!” 

“I supposed it would.” A long pause, while he did some 
more staring. 

“Pay in advance; you’ve no baggage!” with a scornful 
glance at my little bag. Then he had to run round town to get 
change for the $5.00 I gave him. 

Got supper at a little restaurant and market combined, 
across the road. 

Passed fields where the corn had been spoiled by rain 
earlier in the year. 

I have noticed, in hollows where the mud was deep across 
the road, a very bad smell. To-day some one spoke of the fact 


H2i8 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

that during a wet summer like this one, the water rising on the 
roads always smells very bad. Couldn’t learn the why of it: 
just, 

“Oh, it always does, a wet year!” 

CALLAO TO BROOKFIELD, MISSOURI 

* 

Saturday , August 7. 

Tried to get a reasonably early start this morning; but none 
of the three lunchrooms in Callao was open. By the time I 
had hunted for a place to eat, and, finding everything closed, 
bought half a dozen oranges, the lunchroom where I got supper 
last night opened its door to me. Might have had meat, etc., 
but, somehow, I can’t eat. Choked down three boiled eggs, and 
drank three cups of coffee. Three eggs may sound a good 
breakfast, but walking requires considerable fuel. 

Got off at 7:40 a.m. After many little up and down hills 
and turns in the road, came out where I could see across a wide 
valley to the low hills beyond. Haven’t had such an extensive 
view for weeks. The hills looked well covered with trees along 
their tops, but I knew it was only the trees around houses and 
along the roads and fields. It was good to get a view, after so 
many days of road between tall corn or wheat fields. Even on 
the tops of hills, I haven’t been able to get any views,—shut in 
by the grain. 

Down into the valley, which looked about two miles wide, 
though it took me two hours to cross it. To the first bridge 
in the valley, the road was very straight and level, seeming the 
more open because there were no fences between the fields and 
the road on either side. Just before the first bridge, there 
was a space of perhaps a hundred yards where the mud was 
very deep. The horses’ tracks showed that in places they had 
gone down to their knees in the mud. It was drying and there¬ 
fore hardening on top, and I got across pretty well. While 
crossing it, trying each step before I put my weight on my foot, 
I thought of an automobile that had passed me just this side of 
Callao, and had asked the way to some place the name of which 
I could not understand (told them I didn’t know the way to it), 
and felt sure that if they had tried to come that way, they 
couldn’t have got through. 

Between the first and second bridges in the valley, the 
road was fenced (barbed wire, as practically all fences on the 
roads here are) and in this section there were some turns. 
Then the road went on to another, smaller, bridge; and then on 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


129 


and up over the low hills I had seen ahead of me. Over those 
and across a narrow valley, and climbed some more low hills 
into New Cambria. One of the bridges was across the Chariton 
River, but I am not certain which. 

Near one of the bridges, in the wide valley, were several 
large birds, looking blue as the flew, with long yellow legs and 
long bills. “Blue heron” came into my mind; but I had sup¬ 
posed blue heron were much larger birds than these. They 
were graceful, both standing and flying. 

In New Cambria (a small place) an auto passed me, and 
some one in it called to me: 

“You have beaten us to it.” 

It was the car that had passed me in the morning and in¬ 
quired for some town. They had been warned not to take the 
“valley road”, and had gone “35 miles around,” one of the men 
said. They asked the usual questions about my trip. Said they 
were from Iowa (I’ve forgotten the place), and were staying 
at farmhouses nights; didn’t find any trouble in “getting taken 
in,” they said. I suppose that is because there are men in the 
party, or maybe because they are in a car. 

East of New Cambria I stopped long enough to eat my last 
three oranges; having eaten the other three earlier in the day. 

Lots more hills and turns before Bucklin. At Bucklin, 
got my slip signed at the post-office at 3 p.m., and had lunch 
in a little lunch room near by. The post office people must 
have given me away; for half a dozen men came and peered in 
the window of the lunch room, and several nodded their heads 
at one another,—yes, the strange walking creature was feeding. 

Left Bucklin at 3:55 p.m. Up hill and down, the road with 
many twists and turns. Could see across hills and hollows. 
Crossed another little valley. Made the first three miles of the 
12 between Bucklin and Brookfield in 50 minutes. Reached the 
sign, “9 miles” to some garage in Brookfield, at 5:45. 

While hustling along, after passing the “7 miles to” sign, 
a small boy on a small horse (boy and horse both shoeless) 
overtook me. After finding out how far I had come to-day, he 
said I must be tired, and he wasn’t tired at all, and wanted me 
to ride his horse and let him walk,—bless his little nine year old 
heart. I explained why I couldn’t ride—that I had to walk all 
the way. He walked his horse, and together we went on to 
St. Catherine’s (“.Saint Cath” he called it), five miles from 
Bucklin. He had been to Marceline with his father and mother, 
who were driving home with a pair of horses; had sent him on 
ahead, as his horse was slower, while they did some errands in 


130 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


town. He was quite concerned because they did not appear 
back of us; but just as we got to the railroad station at St. 
Catherines, they hove in sight. 

He told me about his school: he had a long way to go, and 
when “kept in” used to have to stay all night at a house near 
the school: but since getting his horse to ride, he can get home 
even when “kept in.” He warned me of “a big white bulldog” 
I had to pass; a dog that had once chased his father. 

“They keep him tied except when he chews his rope and gets 
loose, or gets away when they take him in the house to feed him.” 
From the crossing at St. Catherines, he pointed out the bull¬ 
dog house to me, and said goodby. 

In the railroad station at St. Catherines, they said it was 
five miles by railroad to Brookfield; and the same distance 
by wagon road, which was very hilly, and so would take longer. 
Yes, there was one long trestle over the river—not so long as 
the one over the Mississippi! Yes; it was high, too. 

The bulldog on one route; the trestle on the other. Now I 
am sure which I dread most—cross bulldogs or trestles. I 
hurried along the railroad. A little way from the station, a boy 
getting water at a pump in a field near by, told me about that 
cross white bulldog. The dog had bitten people; “though he 
never bit me,” the boy added, “and I went to his house once.” 
They keep him tied except when they call him in to feed him, at 
which times he sometimes gets away from them. 

As I came to the trestle, two colored men came over it. 
I asked one of them—they seemed the better class of colored 
men—to walk back over it with me. Somehow, just the fact of 
some one being near me as I walked over, made it not so bad. 
I meant to give him ten or fifteen cents, but he saw a quarter, 
and said he hadn't had anything to eat all day,—cheerful liar! 
Of course he got the quarter. 

Just across the trestle was a pumping station of some 
kind, with a big engine in it, run by a white man. He said he 
had seen me coming along the track, and was watching to see 
what I would do about the trestle. There was another, much 
longer, trestle, but it was “tinned over” except for about a dozen 
feet, so I walked it by myself. 

Got to Brookfield before it really got dark. It is about 
a mile from where I left the railroad to the centre of the town,— 
which accounts for the five miles by railroad they told me it 
was, while the timetable gives it as only four miles. 

Coming into town, along a street by the side of the rail¬ 
road, I passed an old building,—looked like abandoned railroad 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


131 


sheds, with windows and doors out. In the doorways and inside 
the building were men—tramps of one kind or another. Some 
were sharing bacon and bread; others just sitting around; 
others lying down on the floor. Somehow I didn’t feel afraid,— 
must be getting to be a hobo in spirit myself—and did wish I 
were a man, so I could stop and hobnob with them. 

Has been a fine cool day; quite strong west breeze. 

Even the people along the road admitted that if I got to 
Brookfield to-night I would have made 30 miles to-day. And 
here I am, in a tiny room in a hotel. No window but a sky¬ 
light; a bed, a table, and a washstand with a mirror on it; elect¬ 
ric light of the faintest, about 1-16 c. p. But there is some 
celebration in the city, and this was the only room I could get 
here—and the clerk implied I was lucky to get any. 

BROOKFIELD TO CHILL! CO THE, MISSOURI 

Sunday, August 8 

It was only this morning, that I realized that my room was 
not as clean as Eastern hotels. Got breakfast in a restaurant, 
and started at 7:35 a.m. 

Mostly up and down sloping hills. Could see one rise be¬ 
yond another in the road, often a mile and more at a time. 
Crossed one wide valley, on a long, level dirt road. They speak 
of “dirt roads” here, instead of “wagon roads”. 

At Laclede, the red and white banded poles (which I was 
following) led down the main street, past the Post Office. In¬ 
side, with the door locked, sat the postmaster. He opened it for 
me, and signed my statement at 9:45 a.m. This is the first 
Sunday that I have been able to mail signed postals back show¬ 
ing my progress. 

The road I was on did not go through Meadville, which lay 
to the left. So, at a large farmhouse just to one side of the 
town, I tried to get dinner or lunch. A pleasant elderly lady 
on the porch smiled on me, but said she “had to ask someone 
else.” The “some one else” (a younger woman) appeared in 
an upper window; no milk at all, and no bread baked; no, could¬ 
n’t sell me any lunch of any kind; didn’t have anything in the 
house. Several boys stood inside the gate and listened. Now, 
I wonder, if they tell her a lie some time, and she reproves 
them for it, if they will think of what she told me to-day. 

I added a mile or more by going down into Meadville, 
where I found a sort of store open, and got a can of tomatoes, 
crackers, and coffee, a cherry sundae, and a glass of cococola. 


132 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


Toward evening, a man near a farmhouse called to me and 
asked if no one would give me a ride. I explained, and he said, 
“I thought so.” Said I seemed tired, and that Chillicothe was 
4% miles farther. He was right. Within the next ten or 
fifteen minutes, I passed the “4 mile” sign. 

Several automobilists offered me rides, as did one yester¬ 
day, which is very unusual in Missouri. One of them drove 
quite a way past before slowing up; then waited for me to over¬ 
take them, and, after I refused to ride, the man said that when 
they passed he told his wife I was walking to San Francisco. 
Was it to settle that point, rather than to offer me a ride, that 
he stopped till I overtook them? 

When I got near Chillicothe, and inquired for a hotel, was 
told there were several, two quite near where we were. The 
nearest sounded best to me, about that time. I asked a woman, 
farther on, and she sent me here. It seems to be an old build¬ 
ing. This room hasn’t been swept since the last occupant— 
cigarette and cigar ends plentiful round the floor. The woman 
of the place came up with me, and asked if there was anything 
I wanted. I suggested a washbowl and pitcher. She brought 
them, and asked: 

“Well, that’s all right, isn’t it?” 

“Of course you will get clean sheets—the bed has been slept 
in,” I suggested. 

She looked at me; then at the bed; thought about it, and 

said, 

“I can get them.” 

I asked her to bring some drinking water with the sheets. 
A rap on the door a little later, and a man brought in some 
ice water in a pitcher. No glass appeared, so I used my little 
aluminum mug. After saying I looked tired and my acknow¬ 
ledging I was, he said not to drink water; and pulled a half 
full pint bottle out of his hip pocket and offered it to me. 
Thinking I refused it because I wouldn’t drink out of the bottle, 
he said he would get a glass or cup downstairs. I said I pre¬ 
ferred the water, and he, fearing he had offended me, said of 
course he was joking, but he thought something stimulating was 
better when anyone was thirsty and tired. I realized that he 
really meant it in just the same spirit that another man would 
offer a tired person at his house a glass of wine, and tried to 
make him feel that I appreciated his good-heartedness, even 
though I didn’t want the stimulant. 

He showed me the odd catch on the door, so I could fasten 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


133 


it and “No one would trouble” me. I said I was sure of that. 
Why do people think lone women are fearful of being troubled! 

Asked if there was anything else he could get downstairs, 
and I said, 

“Clean sheets!” 

Then I learned that he only boarded there, and was not the 
man of the house, as I had supposed. 

Later, the woman brought up one clean sheet and two pillow 
cases. One of the latter I surmised had seen service, and the 
other was a tiny one with crocheted lace on it. She asked if 
that was all; said that I could put a comforter over me if I got 
cold in the night. Are people supposed to sleep in their clothes 
and, if it gets cold, put a comforter over them? I asked for a 
top sheet. 

“Wouldn’t you rather have a quilt?” However she brought 
the other sheet. She was very nice about it all; just simply 
didn’t understand. 

I went out and had supper in a lunchroom by the railroad. 

I have been calling this a hotel, but I don’t think it pre¬ 
tends to be one—is just a rooming, or perhaps boarding, house. 

Made 31 miles to-day, I’m told. Very foot tired, the last 
five miles. Some days I’m very tired but not so foot tired. 

CHILLICOTHE TO NETTLETON, MISSOURI 

Monday, August 9. 

This morning, I found Chillicothe was quite a place. I 
seem to have got sidetracked at one edge of it last night. The 
boy in the lunchroom at Meadville told me it was a place of four 
or five hundred; he must have meant four or five thousand, 
surely. There must be a good hotel, or hotels, in a place of this 
size, but I didn’t really get into the city until this morning, 
when my need of a hotel was past. The Chillicothe postmaster 
signed at 8 o’clock. I got away about 8:30. 

After a few hills, the road stretched out flat in a valley— 
“bottom”, I should say. (By the time I learn to call these flat 
valleys “bottoms”, the local designation will change, like “pike” 
and “road”.) The road that came straight across the valley 
didn’t have any red and white bands on the poles, so I was in 
doubt. Asked two men who were putting chains on the wheels 
of a Ford car if the road went to Hamilton. They didn’t know; 
said it was their first trip through here. The car had a licence 
number, followed by a hand-made “TENN”—at least, it looked 
amateurish. 


134 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


After I passed these men, looking back I saw a man walk¬ 
ing down the road toward them; then he passed them. Next 
I saw of him, he was crossing a field. He headed me off, to 
tell me that I couldn’t get over the road between there and 
Utica. Said if he had a buggy, he would have brought it down 
and driven me over. (I wonder if he would! These Missouri 
people seldom ask me to ride. By the way, they call their 
State “Mis-soo-rah.) Anyway, I got over on my two feet. 

By keeping up close to the wire fence, I got over the first 
bad mud patch,—just like going through an overflowed marsh, 
slosh! slosh! only through mud instead of clean water. But 
other, muddier, places followed at intervals. I started to take 
the railroad, but after a few hundred feet was afraid of trestles 
over the streams, and came back to the wagon road; though had 
I known about the water moccasins in the wagon roads, I would 
have kept to the railroad and chanced meeting trestles rather 
than snakes. When “the river is up,” the snakes come up in 
the overflowed roads after toads. 

The Ford car came along and passed me; later, I again 
passed it, where the men were working it out of one of the mud 
patches. It must have turned back and taken another road 
when they got it out. 

Came to a bridge, part fallen nearly into the stream. As 
I stood looking at it, a long, thick brown snake slid into 
the water from the farther side. Thereafter I kept a lookout 
for snakes, and was rewarded by seeing several large ones. I 
no more took to the grass and weeds at the road side to get past 
the mud. I did try walking on the part of the road where the 
wheels had forced the mud up; right under my feet the water 
moved, and a big brown snake wriggled out of the rut. There¬ 
after I kept to the middle of the road, although often one foot 
or the other sank away down, and the heavy mud came half 
way up to my knee. And that black mud (“gumbo” they call 
it) clings so! It almost pulled off my shoes more than once. 

When I thought I must have crossed all the muddy places, 
--not muddy places as we know them, but the whole road from 
side to side one mass of thick mud,—I took off my shoes, washed 
the mud out, and washed it off my stockings. When this “gum¬ 
bo” hardens inside my shoes, it is almost like cement. 

After the first time I washed my shoes out, within a mile 
or so I was deep down in mud again; and this happened several 
times, each time after I thought by the look of the land that I 
was over the deep mud places. 

Between Mooresville and Breckenridge, at a lonesome little 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


135 


schoolhouse, I changed my soaked stockings; my shoes of course 
had to dry on my feet. While on the schoolhouse steps, a Ford 
car passed. One of the men raised his hat, which made me 
look closer at the car: it was the “T’ENN” Ford, which had 
come around by another road. 

Just after leaving the schoolhouse, as I was going down 
a very steep little hill, down a lane rushed a big brown hound, 
barking and growling. I have been told a number of times in 
Missouri that these big brown hounds are always cross. Three 
men were sitting in the field, and never called him back. They 
could see only my head over the bushes, and perhaps thought it 
some neighbor that the dog would recognize when he got out on 
the road. I called to them to call their dog; they made a bluff of 
calling him, but the dog knew they didn’t care, and came on. 
When they began really to call him, he knew by the tone that 
they meant it, and he went back to them. The whole was over 
so quickly, it didn’t frighten me as much as it might have. 

Utica is up on a little ridge. Had lunch there, in a nice 
little restaurant, with clean tablecloths. It is run by a colored 
barber and his wife. She said everyone that stops there, speaks 
of how clean the place is. 

Met no more mud after Utica. “No more mud” through 
here means no more places where the mud was entirely over the 
road so that I couldn’t get round it but had to wade through it. 

Up hill and down, and turns. Left the road with banded 
poles, to get to Mooresville (perhaps a quarter of a mile down 
from the main road and a quarter mile back), where I got two 
bottles of “grape,”—pretty good stuff, not too sweet. 

At Breckenridge, in an open square, with seats, near the 
depot and opposite the post office, I rested. The Postmaster 
there told me Nettleton had a hotel. I had expected to get to 
Hamilton to-night, but late afternoon came too quickly. 

Road pretty straight between Breckenridge and Nettleton; 
long rises, where I could see, at times, more than a mile ahead, 
over three of four more rises. The red and white banded poles 
don’t come into Nettleton. When they turned south at the rail¬ 
road track, I came back down the track to the station, and then 
to this hotel. 

The town has “seen better days!” It once had some board 
sidewalks, which now are only pieces and holes. As the young 
man at the station said, “There isn’t much of a town.” There 
are freight sidings, however,—or do they belong to the Nettleton 
that used to be? 

At the hotel, a girl came, asked questions, and in reply to 


136 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

my saying I wanted supper, room, and breakfast, said her 
mother must be called. Mother came, and told me the price of 
rooms; but when I said I would stay, she said she must call her 
husband. Husband came, and asked many questions: where I 
came from, where I was going, and why I was in town. Said, 

“We hotel keepers have to be very careful.” 

Claims he “got taken in” by a woman the other day. I 
assured him if I wanted to “take him in,” I should invent a 
plausible story in reply to his questions. I was just at the stage 
of tiredness where one gets giggly, and I sat and giggled while 
replying to his questions. He was good natured enough to laugh 
with me, while reiterating how “careful a hotel man has to be.” 

Anyway, I got the room, with two windows—one more than 
rooms in most country hotels through here have. Had supper, 
and the corn and cucumbers, and muffins and milk were good. 

After supper, the daughter came in and asked me to pay in 
advance: 

“It is customary,” she assured me. 

Missourians surely are suspicious people. 

In reply to an inquiry as to whether I wanted a feather 
bed or mattress, I of course said “mattress”. It was a mistake: 
the mattrass is of dry husks (corn husks I suppose), and rattles 
just like newspapers. I am suspicious of the sheets. No mirror 
in the room—several rooms of late have not had any mirror. 
Perhaps had I got a feather-bed room, I would have had a mir¬ 
ror, too. 

Yesterday was warm—hot, in fact. Yet last night my feet 
didn’t bother me like they did the night before. To-night they 
are swollen—first time to amount to anything for a long while. 
It evidently is the mud (or sand) that makes them swell. 

To-day started out to be hot sunshine. Then became kind 
of “overcast,” the sun shining now and then just enough to cast 
a shadow. Later, it got more dull: the sun looked just as it 
does before some snowstorms— a light, irregular circle in the 
sky, yet no real clouds. The people through the country predict¬ 
ed rain for this afternoon, but it didn’t come. 

About 25 miles to-day; wonder how much extra hills and 
turns made. 

NETTLETON TO OSBORN, MISSOURI 

Tuesday , August 10. 

After breakfast at the hotel, I got off about 7:30 a.m. Ex¬ 
cept for a mile south, just out of Nettleton, the road has been 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


137 


practically east and west, except for a few south or north turns, 
one of V 2 mile, according to the signboard. 

At Hamilton, 7 miles from Nettleton, the postmaster signed 
at 9:50 a.m. He was across the street in the bank window. 
I asked his assistant if she would beckon to him for me, or call 
him, 

“Call him yourself;” so I went over and he came back 
with me. 

At Hamilton, I had an ice-cream soda (drug stores here do 
not have soda fountains). The man asked me if I was “travel¬ 
ling;” when I laughed, and suggested that I must look as if I 
was, he hastened to assure me: 

“I knew by your conversation that you weren’t a bum.” 

My “conversation” had been limited to asking for ice-cream 
soda, which he served in a paper cornucopia in a glass holder. 

Hamilton to Cameron, 14 miles by some signs, 12 by others. 
It took me 514 hours, without loafing, except for one 15 minute 
stop. That time, I stopped by some water; spent a couple of 
minutes taking off my shoes and stockings; stepped into water, 
and began to sink in the muddy bottom. I stepped out im¬ 
mediately. It took me the other 13 minutes to get the mud 
(“gumbo”) off my feet and put on my shoes and stockings. 
No more Missouri wading for me. 

Left Cameron at 4:30, after having lunch, and came on to 
Osborn, supposed to be 7 miles farther, but it took me 2 hours 
and 40 minutes. Think I’ve said that the distances here are only 
to “city limits”. Osborn is a city—the speed limit sign boards 
say so. 

Osborn is a little place. The man here took my 50 cents— 
the regulation price of rooms in these off-regular-travel-route 
towns—and then I had to wait till he got his wife to show me up 
to my room. I have a small table—joy! Also, a wooden 
paintless backless chair; and a mirror about 8 by 12 inches. It 
is marred by strange figures and cracks in the “quicksilver” of 
it, but it’s a mirror! One learns to value luxuries like this 
mirror through here—and I wonder what Kansas will be like! 
Am told that Missouri is away ahead of Kansas! 

Had to ask for a washbowl and pitcher, but got them—and 
about a quart of water in the pitcher. Asked for drinking 
water, too, and have about a quart of it in a glass pitcher. The 
glass pitcher is not clean, and the water looks queer and tastes 
queerer,—but that will assure all the more of it being left to 
add to the other for my morning bath. 

I have been seeing a new variety of dog the last day or two. 


138 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

In Ohio and Indiana, collies seemed to predominate. In Illinois 
there were lots of—well, they looked like a mixture of shepherd 
and perhaps hound,—good-natured, lazy dogs. Hounds and 
spotted carriage dogs were more plentiful in Western Illinois; 
while Eastern Missouri seemed all “houn’ dorg”—big ones. 
Then, again, collies seemed to be in favor; and to-day I have 
seen a number that look like coyotes to me. Their ears are 
longer and sharper than collies’ ears, and stand up higher: and 
they haven’t so much fluffy petticoats and collars and tails; 
their bark is deep like a big dog, instead of the sharp collie 
yelp. 

At one time to-day ahead of me in a field were some odd¬ 
looking sheep, I thought. When I got nearer, I saw they all 
had horns—straight horns, curved horns, all kinds of horns, 
thick and thin, wide and narrow. Then I decided they were 
some kind of fancy goats. Their hair was white, and long, and 
silky-looking,—like a certain kind of winter cloth, only longer 
hair. They were really pretty—almost beauties. For miles 
after passing them, I tried to see some one to ask about them, 
but nary a soul did I meet. Later, the people I asked didn’t 
know what I meant—knew of neither goats nor sheep. 

To-day was hot till after 6 o’clock, when it got nice and cool. 
I made 28 miles for sure. 

Didn’t get any supper here, I had such a late lunch—which 
is merely an excuse to myself, it’s so hard to eat the greasy 
food that they prepare, and I can’t seem to get acclimated to it. 

The roads east and west from starting this morning to here 
were, first, up and down rises,—more up than down, I think; 
then a short flat strip on top of a ridge, and then more up and 
down. 

From Osborn to St. Joseph it is 28 miles by railroad; that 
means over 30 by road. Have $1.24 left to get there on. Wish 
I could get there in time to-morrow to get my mail before 6 
o’clock, but doubt it. Day after to-morrow I will walk out of this 
State into Kansas—glad? Gee! 

Kansas will be my last hot State—fall is coming—and so 
are the Rocky Mountains. 

The door downstairs here has a bell on it, and every time 
anyone comes in or goes out, it tinkles,—just as if the bang 
of the door wasn’t enough warning. The shifting tracks of the 
railroad are just outside my window—good prospect for sleep. 
However, here goes for bed. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


139 


OSBORN TO ST. JOSEPH, MISSOURI 

Wednesday , August 11. 

As I went downstairs this morning, the cooking smelled 
good. For weeks now, almost ever since I started, except a 
few times, the smell of cooking has choked me. So I foolishly 
went into the dining room. A woman sitting there asked: 

“Anything you want?” (Do people usually wander into 
a hotel dining room at breakfast time unless they want to eat?) 

I had breakfast—hope it comforted her to know there was 
something I did want. The cooking was as usual. I choked 
down the egg, ate my rolled oats, and drank two cups of coffee. 

Road mostly hilly to-day. Two one-mile angles, and several 
shorter ones. Left Osborn at 7:10 a.m., and at 9:40 got to 
Stewartsville—7 miles by some signs, 6 by others. Didn’t waste 
any time on the way, so I guess—by the way, Missourians 
“guess” just like New Englanders—it was 7 miles. 

At Stewartsville, the postmaster signed at 10:20. Had ice 
cream and cococola in a drug store that was like a city drug 
store, big soda fountain and all. Druggist said he had been in 
St. Jo until last November. (It is never “St. Joseph” through 
here; it’s “St. Jo.”) Man came in and was groaning over 
spoiled oats. After he went, men said that the crops weren’t 
half as bad as the farmers were trying to make out. The last 
two years have been very dry, and spoiled the corn crop, but 
“the harvest” (grain) has been fine. This year, the rain of the 
past few weeks has held up the harvesting, and some oats and 
some wheat have spoiled; but the corn promises to be a big 
crop—the rains came just at the right time in its growth, though 
the low fields have been flooded and spoiled. If, after flooding, 
the water in the fields goes down in a day or two, the corn crop 
is safe; but if it stays on the fields for days, the crop is a loss. 
The farmers count on one lost crop of some kind each four 
years. 

Between Stewartsville and St. Joseph crossed several wide 
“bottoms.” Stopped at Bayfield (all the town in sight was 
two houses and one store), and tried to get fruit, but couldn’t. 
At one of the houses, the woman got me some milk, and small 
apples; would take no pay—said that the milk was skimmed 
(and it surely was), and that the apples were wormy (and they 
surely were). She had various stories to tell of people who had 
stayed over night at her house; and other stories about them, 
of which she wasn’t sure—only “thought” so and so! 

Before Bayfield, I sat on a bank at a corner and ate some 


140 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


“rusty skins” that I picked off a tree. Man came by, and 
suggested that I get lunch at “the house on the hill,” where they 
were harvesting. I said it wouldn't be any use—women didn’t 
want to sell lunch to a woman walking. He said he would 
“speak to her,” but I said nay. It is strange how little these 
farmers and ranchers know women—their own wives especially. 
I am sure more than once a man has told me to go back to his 
house and his wife would give me lunch, when she had just said 
“No”! 

Bayfield is part way across a wide “bottom.” After leav¬ 
ing there, I went straight on, until, at a fork, a sign said, 
“Bridge out.” The other cases of “bridge out” were crossable 
for foot-passengers,—which means for me. At this fork I 
couldn’t see any banded poles on either road, so I went straight 
on till the road turned south. Then took the railroad for a 
mile, when a road crossed it (apparently the one that had turned 
south), and I rejoiced to see the “State Highway” white crosses 
on black background. No banded poles, however. 

While on the railroad, I came to a long high trestle over a 
very narrow stream. I stood looking at it and thinking about 
it too long, and didn’t dare to cross—mostly, I told myself (and 
hope it’s so), because of a curve in the railroad. Scrambled 
down the railroad bank, got a long stick, and found the mud 
of the stream not too deep; banged the stick around in the mud 
to scare away water snakes,—the water was only a foot or so 
deep, and not more than a dozen feet wide. Of course, under 
the water, there were some inches of mud. These streams are 
so muddy that one can’t see what is in the water, much less 
on the bottom. I waded through. I hadn’t taken the farther 
bank into consideration. The first bank had been quite solid; 
the farther one—wasn’t. As I stepped out of the water I sank 
half way to my knee in mud; and every struggling step was the 
same—and I thought of snakes. Was some glad to feel the 
solid grass under my feet at the top of the bank. I have been 
told that there is no quicksand in these rivers, so was saved that 
fear. 

The “bridge out” on the wagon road proved to be two 
bridges out. They are building new, larger ones; and also 
improving the State Highway by cutting down the tops of the 
worst hills and filling up the worst hollows. 

At the last of the two “out” bridges, a man was bringing 
water to the workmen, and I got a drink from him. I hate to 
ask for water at farm-houses, because they say, “The pump’s 
back of the house,” and leave me to walk around to find it,— 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


141 


sometimes meeting a dog or two, and sometimes having to go 
away across the back yard. 

The man who gave me the drink said St. Jo. was 13 miles. 
I had to turn up a substitute road to get round this bridge, 
through a field and under some trees where the workmen were 
camping. Back on the main road, soon passed the “12 mile” 
sign. 

At a lonesome store, I tried to get cococola and couldn’t. 
So asked for a drink of water. 

“Pump’s out there,” grouchily. 

It was, just by the door. Think he realized he had been 
gruff, for he came out and pumped for me. 

Near this store was a combination St. Joseph sign,—giving 
distances not only to the city limits, but to Court House, Stock- 
yards, etc.,—I’ve forgotten what the various mileages were. 

In low places in the “bottoms” straw is dumped into the 
muddy places on the road. A good scheme for the time being, 
but I wonder how well it lasts. Sometimes spoiled grain is 
used for this purpose, instead of straw. 

At Clair they were doing this, over a long mud place. I 
asked the distance to St. Joseph, to learn “About 7 miles.” 
Then came a long strip of mud “bottom” (after crossing the 
straw-filled place), where the sun had partly dried the mud. 
Picked a precarious footing across, and went in only twice; 
scraped my toe, on baked mud, so it hurt wofully. The edges 
of the mud, where teams have sunk and squeezed it up and it 
has hardened in the sun and air, are almost as hard, and quite 
as rough, as rocks. As I was crossing this mud, the team that 
had been dumping the straw passed me, the long, sandy-gray 
bearded man driving. The one who had said St. Jo was 7 
miles was riding in the back, and suggested I ride. 

My reason for noting this man, out of the many who have 
asked me to ride, came half an hour later. When I had reached 
the top of a long hill (“6 miles to St. Jo”) that led down to 
another long bottom, he overtook me in a buggy, and was in¬ 
sistent that I should ride. So I explained why I could not. 
After a long talk, half and hour or more, he turned and drove 
back. Said he hitched up to overtake me and drive me across 
the next bottom. Finding I wouldn’t ride, asked me to go 
back and have supper with him and his wife. Of course it was 
too late for that: darkness and St. Joseph were both too near. 
I suppose there are lots of people just as good-hearted, but 
I have met few of them on this trip. I wonder if the people 
that I have seen my brother “hitch up” to take across an over- 


142 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


flowed lane, near Boston, in sight from his house, appreciated 
it as much as I did this man’s kindness even though I had to re¬ 
fuse it. 

Across this bottom, one mile to “102 bridge,” and then, 
beyond the bridge, a fine road (still up and down hill) into St. 
Joseph. I got to the electric-lighted roads just at dark and at 
precisely 8 o’clock—stopped under the first electric light pole to 
see the time. 

On one hill, 2^miles east of St. Joseph, is the insane asy¬ 
lum—big brick buildings near the road—and its grounds, and I 
was glad (remembering the tragedies near the Waverly asy¬ 
lum) to be past that part of the road, and did wish, as I went 
past, that I hadn’t been told it was the asylum. 

At a little drug store at 26th and Frederick Avenue, got 
cococola and looked up the Y. W. C. A. address. They have a 
nice brick building, but I had all sorts of fussing to get them 
to let me have a room to myself. At last I got it, on promise 
that I would “pay for two people”—that is, for the whole room, 
which, considering their low rates, is only fair. I explained 
that I couldn’t pay in advance, as I was to get a P. O. Order at 
St. Joseph and was out of funds till tomorrow, the post office 
being of course closed tonight. Told the woman in charge that 
I had only sixty cents left, and she took 50 cents of it “on 
account”! 

Quite a bunch of women came in “to see the woman who 
had walked thirty miles to-day.” 

Soaked in a hot bath, and feel less tired than for the last 
few days. I should muchly like to go over my route with a 
speedometer. I haven’t any faith, somehow, in pedometers. 

Got here to St. Joseph at 8.45 p.m.; over 32 miles. Bet¬ 
ter walking to-day, except in places. All the dogs have been 
good-natured. Sunshine all day; pretty hot till about 4 p.m. 

There surely is a fallish feeling to the evenings after sun¬ 
down. That makes for present comfort, but—even the Rockies 
must be seven or eight hundred miles away, by the route I will 
have to take to get stopping places at night; and then the 
Deserts, not to think of the Sierras beyond! 

I was later getting into Missouri than I counted on, but 
have made better time through the State than I expected to. 

Missouri is certainly hilly, much to my surprise,—hilly, 
and river “bottoms.” 

Am giving Norton, Kansas, as my next address. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


143 


ST. JOSEPH, MISSOURI 

Thursday, August 12. 

This morning, I decided to stay in St. Joseph until about 
3 p.m., and then make a short walk to a near town; but later, 
decided to wait until to-morrow morning to start again. 

At the postoffice, where the assistant postmaster signed 
my slip at 9 a.m., mail was scarce for me—only two letters. I 
am travelling faster than I expected to, and getting ahead of 
my mail. Yet one of these letters tells me: 

“You won’t get to San Francisco unless you get a hump 

on.” 

Went shopping; among other things, got a thick cotton 
shirt-waist, not porus like the Hannibal one. My sleeves, 
rubbing against my skirt as I walk, wear out so quickly! 

St. Joseph I rather like, notwithstanding its many factories 
and extensive stockyards. This Y. W. C. A. is a good brick 
building, on the side of a hill. 

Had lunch about 2 o’clock; but a fly got into the salad a- 
head of me, and I departed, leaving him in possession. So this 
evening I went hunting for another restaurant, and found a 
good one. Had I got a look inside before I went in, think I 
would have stayed out,—music, bright light, and pretty dresses. 
I felt very shabby, though I was clean. However, now I’m 
glad I didn’t see in first. Had the best steak I’ve had since 
leaving Pittsburg, as well as the best combination salad since 
that city. Shall try to find it to-morrow morning; it opens early 
—I asked the waiter. After getting several streets away, I 
realized I hadn’t taken notice of just where it was located. 

Have been looking over railroad timetables, and find it is 
about 1600 railroad miles between Colorado Springs and San 
Francisco; and, according to a sign I passed a few days back, 
it is 646 miles between St. Joseph and Colorado Springs, making 
2200 miles to go, if I stick to the rails from Colorado Springs 
west. 

But the 1600 railroad miles is likely to be nearer 2000 
wagon road miles, I fear. And then add the 646 miles from 
here to Colorado Springs; not to think of the fact that I shall 
probably have to wander round some, adding mileage to that. 
Looks like about 2700 miles more by wagon road—nearly as 
far as it is in a direct line across the whole United States. 

I wonder!—The snow on the Sierra Nevadas (which I am 
warned of every day) makes me a little uneasy. I absolutely 
will not think of the stretches of desert that I have seen 


144 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

from the train windows, that are ahead of me. It’s too bad I 
am so far north, though I can’t help it now. It didn’t occur' 
to me to get railroad timetables over my route as I went along, 
before. I shall cross Northern Kansas to Norton, and then 
drop southwest into Colorado at Burlington in order to get 
stopping places nights. However, I haven’t wasted much time— 
not very much. The one day at Decatur I couldn’t help, though 
I need not have wasted to-day here. 

In Missouri, I have seen and heard many mules. Surely, 
the voice of the mule is heard in the land. Lots of them were 
fine, sleek, large animals. Saw many more in the pastures than 
were being driven on the roads. There must be a big demand 
for army mules in Europe now. 

Missouri is also a State of windmills; and most of them 
creak and squeek. One day, as I meandered along, I heard a 
dog barking in a strange way, rather long rasping barks*. 
When I got near a ranch it turned out to be the windmill. 

To-morrow I enter Kansas, by the map the longest—widest,., 
rather—State to cross. 

ST. JOSEPH, MISSOURI, TO SEVERANCE, KANSAS 

Friday, August 13. 

This morning, went down to my last-night’s restaurant 
(no trouble to find it—my feet took me right there), and had 
another of their steaks, and some fine coffee, too. While wait¬ 
ing for breakfast, the waiter brought me a morning paper, 
carefully folded (I saw him folding it as he came across the 
room) to a heading, “Miss Minnie Hill Footing it to the Exposi¬ 
tion.” The paper said I was “well supplied with funds”; 
while of course it’s the truth, it was stupid of the paper to* 
print that. I hope none of the to-be-met tramps will happen 
to see that particular paper, and read that particular item. 

As I left the city, saw an advertisment like I had seen 
going into the city, day before yesterday, of a restaurant—“Offi¬ 
cial A. A. A. restaurant.” When I had seen it on the other side 
of St. Joseph, I had looked hungrily at it and thought it was 
not a place for such a dust-covered pilgrim as I. This morning, 
realized that of all the restaurants that St. Joseph must have, I 
had happened to fall into that particular one to eat. 

Got away about 7:45. Into Kansas, across the Missouri— 
wide, slow, muddy—and through Elwood, a tiny place. The 
road ran through low, flat land, and queer smells drifted across, 
it every little while. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


145 


In a large field just east of Wathena (pronounced Wahr- 
ke’ na) were a lot of tents. In some smaller ones, near the 
road, people were living; had beds and stoves, some of the latter 
in the tents and some under the trees outside. I asked some 
one if it was a circus. It was the Wathena Chautauqua. 

I hastened on, getting a soda in Wathena to encourage me. 

Lost my striped poles at the west end of the Missouri 
River Bridge: picked them up again (or some that resembled 
them) in Wathena, but once more lost them, almost immediately. 

One team that passed me east of Wathena overtook me 
again between there and Troy. Man had been (or was going) 
to market with a load of tomatoes, and gave me four big ones; 
said they made a good lunch. I didn’t like to refuse; carried 
them till about 11 o’clock, when they had got to weigh pounds 
and pounds, and I sat on a bench under a tree in a school yard 
and ate them. Some men were working on the other side of 
the schoolhouse, and their dog came around the building, looked 
me over, and went back; he must have reported me as harmless, 
for the men didn’t invite me to move on. 

There was some low, level road and a little mud west of 
Wathena, but the road to-day has been mostly hilly. Just be¬ 
fore Troy is a steep hump to go up and down, and up a longer 
hump to get into the town. The county court house—a brick 
building—is on top of the hump on which the town is built, 
among trees and grass (town park?). 

Came to Troy on the “Rock Island Highway”, which in 
places has reddish-brown and white bands on the poles. Per¬ 
haps they are meant for red and white, but I hardly think so. 
Guess the “Pike’s Peak” road must have turned down through 
Atchison. At Troy (14 railroad miles from St Joseph) I got 
malted milk. 

At Troy asked about the road to Severance. Man at 
station told me to go up the railroad to first overhead bridge, 
there go up the bank to the road, go mile south, and then 
“due west”. I did it. At first, after getting on the wagon 
road, found “Rock Island Highway”; but got off it after a while, 
and came into Severance by another road, I think. The road 
certainly runs “due west,” rise after rise. From the top of one 
rise, I could see three or four rises ahead, each a little higher 
than the one before it. Then, when I’d get to the top of the 
highest of that set, another series of rises would stretch out 
ahead. It was that way all the way to Severance. 

When the road crossed the railroad at Stout, I asked a man 
at the station, who had several boys with him, for water. He 


146 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


got it for me. Said he was tending sheep down there,—an in¬ 
dustry through this part of Kansas. He told me to come over 
a hill by the road, as it was shorter than the railroad, which 
I thought of taking from Stout to here; also told me where to 
stay in Severance. 

The woman here came up to my room and sat and talked 
an hour or two. I suppose the women through here don’t see 
many strangers, and are glad of a listener. Even if I were not 
too tired to talk myself, they don’t seem to care anything about 
my trip. While she was talking, I noticed that the bed looked 
clean, and spoke of having had to ask for clean sheets at one 
or two places, as the beds had not been changed since being slept 
in. She said indeed this one hadn’t been slept in, and pulled 
down the top sheet: the under sheet showed plainly it had been 
slept on. She was much surprised and got me a fresh one. 

I met a really brigand to-day, driving four prancing-steeds 
abreast (not prancing steeds, which are steeds that are pran¬ 
cing; but prancing-steeds,—steeds that might, could, would, or 
should prance, on occasion). The tall brigand had long brown 
mustaches; a wide-brimmed hat turned up on one side and 
very far over the other ear,—a picture for a cover of a murder¬ 
ous Wild West dime novel. He deigned not even a nod of greet¬ 
ing to this poor tramp. To be sure, temporarily he was out of 
his proper sphere: he was driving a road scraper, and his 
prancing-steeds had very long ears and shaved tails. While 
his sun was in eclipse and there was nothing doing in the 
brigand line, he was probably working out his own (or his em¬ 
ployer’s) taxes on the roads, assisted by four mules. 

The Severance postmaster signed at 6:30 p.m. 

My little bag has been heavy all day, so yesterday’s loafing 
didn’t do much good; and I was up late last night,—after 10:30 
p.m. My bag is a barometer of my feelings for the day: if 
it seems heavy when I start out, I know I’m not in good walking 
trim. The mornings it feels very heavy, I get dreadfully 
tired before night. When it seems so light that I look around 
the room to be sure I havn’t left anything, I find I don’t mind 
the day’s walk. 

The color of the automomile license tags has changed again. 
The Indiana cars have red tags; Illinois, yellow; Missouri, 
green; Kansas, Orange. 

It has been hot to-day. This morning, hazy at first; this 
afternoon, the sun under clouds at times, at times bright sun¬ 
shine. Most of the teams and autos that passed me to-day 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


147 


asked me to ride. Think I can count that I made 28 miles to¬ 
day, as I came by the wagon roads; it is 25 by railroad. 

My first day in Kansas is over,—the State that, except 
Nevada, I most dreaded to cross, when in Washington I figured 
out my route. And what people have told me of Kansas, on 
the way, hasn’t encouraged me any. No one seems to know 
anything about Nevada: still less encouraging, added to my 
impression of the State from the trains. Of course, I am still 
being warned of what my fate will be when I get into the 
Rocky Mountains, where I will get lost or perish, and the 
desert sandstorms and thirst. The Mountains don’t fright 
me—if I can only get across the Sierras before snow. 

SEVERANCE TO HIAWATHA, KANSAS 

Saturday, August 1U. 

Last evening and this morning, every one I met in Sever¬ 
ance seemed to know I was “the woman who is walking across 
the country.” 

Left Severance at 8 a.m., and walked steadily till I got to 
the Hiawatha post office at 5:15 p.m., stopping % of an hour 
for lunch; no stop at all except that. That is almost nine hours’ 
steady walking, and at less than three miles an hour which I can 
make easily now, even with short stops, I must have made 26 
miles. By railroad, however, I think it is much less, but can’t 
get a timetable with mileage on it. 

A new pronunciation of Wathena to-day. In talking, I 
called it Wahr-ke-na, as I had learned to do back in the town 
itself. Man I was speaking to repeated it, as War-the-na’: 
wonder if he was kidding. 

Heard a new expression, “a boot-leg road”, to describe a 
certain turn in the road. 

At Robinson, I couldn’t get any definite directions how to 
get to Hiawatha. Four men told me four different things; two 
of these were together in a team, and each one was sure his 
directions were right. After many turns and up and down hills, 
I got here,— and I think all of the four were wrong. 

The patrons of the boarding houses eat in overalls and 
suspenders, coats and vests off. Their dexterity in handling 
their knives without cutting their mouths, is interesting. The 
last course is toothpicks, which they think it would be rude 
to take away from the table to use. However, there are paper 
napkins at this house, for which I am thankful. I can appre¬ 
ciate the feelings of the man who said he would be glad to get 


148 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


back to the country where they used napkins; that he was tired 
using the back of his hand. Of course, the cities like Hannabal 
and St. Joseph are like cities anywhere—have everything. 

This morning started in cloudy, but the sun soon came out 
—hot. (My new check waist runs color). After 6 p.m., it got 
cool, with a breeze. 

This part of Kansas is more hilly than Missouri—longer 
and steeper hills, and practically no flat spaces to-day. Nothing 
but up and down hill—no valleys to cross. I had been think¬ 
ing, early in the day, of trying to drop farther south. But they 
tell me it is hilly as far south as Lawrence—that round there 
is as bad as up here. This and reports of overflowed roads in 
Southern Kansas, make me think perhaps I had better stay up 
north. For the first time, I believe it may be “better to bear 
the ills we have,” etc. 

At railroad crossings, the signs no longer read, “Stop, 
Look, and Listen,” as they did in Missouri. Passed a few signs, 
“Look out for the cars”; while at most of the crossings it is 
left to a person’s own discretion whether or not to look out for 
them. 


HIAWATHA TO ONEIDA, KANSAS 

Sunday, August 15. 

Had breakfast this morning at 7:30. Last night, when I 
asked the man how early I could get breakfast, he said: 

“You mean, how late can you get it?” 

Got away at 8:15. Eleven miles by road to Fairview (at 
least, by the road signs), where I arrived at 11:45, and the 
postmaster signed at 12 noon. Got dinner there, and it was all 
right. 

Left Fairview at 1:30, and got here to Oneida (pro¬ 
nounced O-ni-da) at 5:45 p.m. It seemed to me about 13 or 14 
miles, but am told it is 15. 

This morning, there were some hills and then a long, more 
or less level valley nearly to Fairview. This afternoon, more 
or less hilly. But from the hilltops there is no view. An ex¬ 
ception was one hill this morning,—“Grand View Farm” at 
the top of it. When I got to the top of the hill, I could see the 
whole valley to Fairview. 

It is just about dark now, and no screen in one window and 
a broken one in the other, and I’m afraid to light a lamp on 
account of mosquitoes coming in; so can’t write any more. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


149 


ONEIDA TO BEATTIE, KANSAS 

Monday , August 16. 

The only other “guest” at the hotel where I stayed last 
night told me that the way I came yesterday had added six miles 
to the distance between Fairview and Seneca. (I had meant 
to get to Seneca last night, but didn’t). He told me to come 
“directly west” when I started out to-day, and I did so. Have 
come from Oneida to Beattie, 29 miles according to the Axtell 
postmaster (and I wonder how much the rises and hollows have 
added to that); according to another man, who probably allowed 
for rises and hollows, 32 miles. 

Left Oneida at 7:10. Up and down rises, four or five in 
sight from the last one of the four or five before them. After 
some time, came to where the “directly west” road was but 
little travelled; and at last it petered out to just a cart track, 
with grass on the sides and between the ruts. Kept on directly 
west, uncertain whether I would end up in some one’s back 
yard, or a cornfield, or a pasture. After some hours, at the top 
of the first of another series of rises, I saw that the last one 
of that series was again a travelled road. 

When I left Oneida, the sun was shining hot on my back, 
and the sky clear. A clear hot morning always means clouds 
in the afternoon; whereas a cloudy or hazy morning means 
boiling hot sunshine in the afternoon. About 11 or 11:30 the 
clouds climbed up and thunder began to rumble. Then rain, 
and I put on my raincoat. It did come driving down for a 
couple of miles—a much localized shower. I saw the rain at 
the top of a hill ahead of me, walked into it and through it, 
later reaching a road that hadn’t been rained on to-day. Didn’t 
pass a house while walking through it. 

Tried to buy milk at a farmhouse; woman said she had 
“forgotten to save out any this morning.” One more unsuc¬ 
cessful try, and decided to wait till I should reach Axtell,— 
which, being in heavy letters on the map, would surely have a 
hotel or restaurant. 

When in sight of Axtell (which lay ahead, and to the north 
of the road I was travelling), asked a man, who was digging 
a hole in his yard, for a drink. He nodded and pointed to the 
pump. I got my drink. Man wasn’t a cripple, as it at first 
occured to me he might be, when he didn’t offer to get me the 
water: it simply never occured to him to pump it for me. 

I suppose it is the same feeling (or lack of feeling) that 
makes the men not turn out their teams and autos for anyone 


150 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

walking along the road, even though there is lots of smooth 
road to turn out on, and though by not turning they crowd 
the pedestrian into the weeds at the side or on to very rough 
ground. Even when in the kindness of their hearts they ask 
me to ride, they first crowd me off the road. All through 
Missouri the same thing was done—on the country roads, of 
course I mean. There were exceptions, but very few. Yester¬ 
day and to-day, however, more allowed me walking-room. So 
perhaps it will improve as I get farther into Kansas. 

To go back to the man I asked for water. He had a fine 
shady front yard, and I asked if I could sit down in the shade. 
(These east and west roads, even where there is a tree, afford 
no shade to sit in.) He suggested I should go round to the 
back door to sit. It occured to me at once that he was either 
a bachelor keeping house there, or that his wife was away and 
he didn’t want his possibly-passing neighbors to see a strange 
woman sitting in the front yard. But I said that shade where 
I was would be all right. 

“But someone might see you and wonder who you are.” 

“I don’t mind,” I assured him. 

“They might think it queer”. 

“Oh, no; lots of people have let me sit under their trees.” 

After some hesitation; 

“We are baching here, and the neighbors would talk if 
they saw a woman sitting here.” 

I refused his urgent request to sit in the shade on the back 
doorstep, where the neighbors couldn’t criticize, and left him, 
with his reputation safe. 

This man said I was 19 or 20 miles from Oneida; that 
Axtell was a couple of miles farther, and Beattie (pronounc¬ 
ed Ba-tey) 12 miles farther. 

I turned north to Axtell, where the postmaster signed at 
2:20 and I went to lunch, promising to come back to the post 
office and rest, which I did. The Postmaster said he wanted 
me to meet the editor, but I declined; told him I didn’t want 
publicity. I suppose that sounded unpleasant, but I didn”t mean 
it so. 

A man in the Post Office said he had offered me a ride in 
his car yesterday, east of Oneida, and when I refused, his wife 
asked if I was walking to San Francisco, and I had said, “I 
am!” and walked right along. I tried to explain how my mind 
was always fixed on reaching a place to stay before dark, and 
so many people asked me where I was bound for, and so on, and 
I couldn’t stop to talk or I wouldn’t get ahead fast enough. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


151 


All through the country roads in Missouri, except in the 
very Eastern part, automobiles and teams, if there were women 
in them, generally slowed up to pass me (not, however giving me 
any part of the road), and the women just rubbered! That has 
entirely stopped. It is strange that certain things should be 
customary in certain States, and should disappear shortly after 
crossing into another State. 

The dogs of Kansas, so far, are the best “raised” dogs I 
ever saw. If they are on the road and see me coming, they 
hustle to get within their own fences, even when they mean to 
bark at me after they get there. And they bark (when they do 
bark), not growl or snarl, as did many of the Missouri dogs,— 
except the last day or two in Missouri, when they were good- 
natured. Come to think of it, though, maybe it isn't specially 
to the credit of the Kansas dog-raisers: maybe it's the looks 
of me that sends the dogs scuttling inside their own boundaries. 

Great big red barns through here make the farms look pros¬ 
perous.. The harvesting machines are at work, and miles of 
corn—tall corn—in blossom. 

The people to-day have been exceptionally pleasant. The 
Postmaster at Axtell was very likeable, as were the men I met 
in his office. 

After I started for Beattie, a young Atchison man on a 
motorcycle passed me, but soon turned back and asked if I would 
ride(had a seat on the back of his machine). Said he was 
going to Beattie to look at a cow the postmaster had gone over 
to buy. Just as I got to the turn at “5% miles”, I met him 
going back, with a girl on the seat; about a mile east of Beattie, 
they passed me again. After my last turn before getting here 
to Beattie, met the Axtell Postmaster driving back. Seemed like 
meeting old friends. 

This is the first day for a long time, when away from the 
cities, that I have not felt like an alien. The friendly people, 
with their homelike gossip of buying cows, and careful directions 
as to turns in the road, have made the miles go faster. 

Red and white bands on the poles showed up again just 
before Axtell (or are they meant for brown and white?). 

Left Axtell at 4 p.m. for the ten miles to Beattie. Straight 
west 5 V 2 miles up and down rises; south V 2 . mile; west the 
rest of the way, up and down a hill or two and then down a 
long hill and across the valley to Beattie, which I reached at 
6:40 p.m. Right here at the town, the road turned—Beattie 
lies south of the main west road. 

The high weeds and cornfields along most of the roads shut 


152 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


off most of what little wind there may be. To-day there was a 
faint south breeze, until the shower blew across from the south¬ 
west; to-night there is a little breeze from the east. Hot days, 
but cool after sunset. 

Have been seeing a great many grasshoppers. Saw more 
to-day than ever before in any one day,—chrome yellow grass¬ 
hoppers, mottled grasshoppers, and emerald green grasshoppers, 
besides the ordinary brown varieties. 

BEATTIE TO HANOVER, KANSAS 

Tuesday , August 17. 

At Beattie the same woman runs a hotel and restaurant 
across the street from it. I went first to the restaurant: she 
took me over to the hotel, leaving me standing in the hall while 
she went into a room to get some matches. The dog came into 
the hall from the back of the house, and flew at me. Her ex¬ 
cuse was that they had only just moved in from the country, 
and that the dog was not yet used to people being in the hotel. 
This morning, I held my breath as I came downstairs, but 
didn’t see anything of the dog. 

Went over to breakfast at 6:30, the woman having told 
me she had it “at or a little after six.” 

Before I got out of town, overtook boy driving cows, and a 
young man with him. Young man talked intelligently of my 
walk—just as did the people at Axtell. 

I thought by the map, I ought to go south of Beattie— west 
of course, but a little south of west—to get to Marysville, but 
was told Marysville was north of the direct west line. When 
I got there, found it was IVz miles south of that road. The 
roads here run very directly east-west and north-south; so when 
they tell me a town is 20 miles west of another, it is more than 
likely to be 20 miles west plus a mile, or a few miles, either 
north or south. 

At Marysville, the assistant postmaster signed at 12:30 
p.m. He first got a letter out of the files, to see that the 
signature on my letter from Washington was not a forgery. 
The restaurant where I got lunch has two prices: one for natives 
of the town, they say, and a higher price for people who come 
in from outside—like me. 

Fifteen “section miles” from Beattie to Marysville. Same 
old up and down over hills. Some of the road had been scraped, 
some not. The scraped road is smooth; that not recently 
scraped has been cut up more or less by teams and horses’ feet, 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


153 


and is rough walking. On a hill east of the town (or is it a 
city?) is a stone tower that used to be the pumping station. 

Marysville is pretty, with shaded streets—mostly large 
sugar maples, I think. Just before getting there I came up a 
stony hill, very like some New England hills,—steep, the ledge 
cropping out here and there, and loose stones. The crumbled- 
up stone has made white sand, hard on my eyes. After getting 
up this hill,—a sharp, stony tramp,—down into the town. A 
big brick building to the north of the town, man said was the 
poorhouse. Don’t know why I doubt it. 

Asked a small boy for the post office, and he said: 

“Away down on Main Street.” 

“Where’s Main Street?” 

“Street you’re on”—with much disgust. “Go right down, 
and keep a-goin’.” 

“All right, thank you; I’ll keep agoing.” 

Left Marysville at 2:15. 

A couple of miles west, looking back, got a good view of 
that town, sitting smugly in the sun. 

When I found I wouldn’t be able to reach Washington to¬ 
night, decided to go to Nolan. By the map, Nolan is nearer 
in a direct west line from Marysville than is Hanover. But no 
one was sure whether or not there was a hotel or boarding house 
at Nolan, and one man did know there was “something of the 
kind” at Hanover. So finally I turned north toward Hanover. 

At one house I passed to-day, the woman and children were 
standing at the door, watching me coming up the road. Their 
dog barked and the biggest girl (perhaps ten years old) walked 
to the gate with the dog and opened it and let him out on the 
road. The gate and fence were high. Of course, then he 
barked harder than ever. 

Saw an old friend on the roadside—a real big Scotch thistle 
in bloom. First of the kind I’ve seen since starting on the walk. 
Several days ago passed some golden rod in bloom—just a few 
spears of it; none since, or before. Wild flowers are strangely 
absent from the roadsides; and birds are very few. 

After leaving Marysville, got a little way on the wrong 
road at a corner, and came back. This has happened before. 
Somehow, I seem to feel when I take the wrong turn—must be 
developing a sense that animals have and humans lack. The 
road, when I got the right one, wound round some, and went 
north Vz mile a couple of times: but after a time it started 
west, up and down hill, with a few level places. 

A sign at a corner, at 4 o’clock, “Hanover 11 miles.” Four 


154 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

miles farther (section miles, of course), an old sign said 
‘‘Hanover 8 miles.” A couple miles farther: “Hanover Bank, 
5% miles.” Two miles west of that the road turned north: 
“Hanover 3% miles.” Of this 3V 2 miles, the first one took 20 
minutes (as it should); from il 2V 2 miles” the rest of the way, 
took me from 6:20 to 8 o’clock,—maybe it was only 2V 2 miles, 
but to take me an hour and forty minutes! At least a half- 
mile was through a swampy place, with woods and bushes. 
Anyway I’ve made my “30 section miles” to-day plus ups and 
downs and curves, which must make 34 at least. 

The day started out cloudy and muggy. At times the sun 
has been very hot; about 5 o’clock it was dreadful, but, being 
so late in the day, I knew the intense heat couldn’t last long. 

Here at Hanover, I first went to a boarding house; but 
the woman didn’t take kindly to taking in a lone walking woman, 
so I came to this hotel; later getting some supper in a little 
lunch room round a corner, down by the railroad. 

At Axtell my hopes were raised that I had got into a part 
of the country where the people were more like country people 
in the East; but it seemed to be only just there. Here at the 
hotel some folks are very curious. 

The people through the country parts of the Middle West 
(with exceptions, of course) are not curious about the trip it¬ 
self, but about my personal affairs: am I married, are my par¬ 
ents living, have I any brothers and sisters, and how many, 
how much am I getting for the walk, and who is paying it, 
how old am I. But the trip itself—the country and the people 
I meet—they are not interested in. It is so easy to recognize 
the people I meet that have been “away from home”. Their 
whole attitude toward my walk is so different—it doesn’t matter 
whether they are just scratching along for a living, or are more 
or less wealthy: they are interested in the trip itself, and lack 
the curiosity for my personal affairs. 

HANOVER TO HADDAM, KANSAS 

Wednesday, August 18. 

Left Hanover about 7:45. It rained last night in the night, 
and has been cloudy and thick all day; a misty rain now and 
then this morning (not enough to put on my raincoat). 

In Hanover, I was told that the bridge near Nolans and 
the one near Emmons are both washed away. The Nolans was 
“an $8,000 bridge”; it has been fished out of the river and drawn 
up on the side. A boat takes people across now. To get to* 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


155 


Washington by wagon road, I would have had to go 6 miles 
south before turning west, to avoid these washed-away bridges. 
Then, too, the mud on the roads is sometimes almost unwalkable 
through, as I found out when I tried to walk. Suppose I shall 
simply have to get used to the railroad and trestles, if it is 
going to be rainy through here; for there is no bottom to the 
country roads—one sinks at every step as far in the mud as the 
water has penetrated. 

I took the railroad. At the first big trestle (over a branch 
of Big Blue River), I could see back to Hanover, the larger 
buildings showing among the trees. The town looked much 
more attractive than when I was in it. 

The map showed several other creeks to cross besides this 
one, but naturally didn’t show all the little ones. Before 
I got to Washington, there were a number of shorter and lower 
trestles, but only one other very long one. Looking at this big 
trestle, I decided that if necessary I could get down on my 
hands and knees and crawl across,—and part way over came 
very near doing so. 

When I got to Nolans,—just past this first high trestle,—I 
found it was only a siding for loading grain, etc., at harvest 
time. If I had taken the Nolans road instead of the Hanover, 
and got to it after dark last night! I’ll have to look out for that 
kind of thing hereafter. The circle on the map and the name is 
just as big for a lonesome siding, without even a station or a 
house in sight, as for a town of several hundred inhabitants. 

A handcar (run by a motor) passed me, and afterwards 
I passed where the men from it were working. One of them said 
I could have had a ride down, if he had known I was coming 
that far. I thanked him, of course, without bothering to explain 
that I couldn’t have accepted the ride. 

Before I started over the second long trestle, I thought that 
I had crossed so many of the shorter ones that I wouldn’t think 
seriously of getting down and crawling on that one—but, for 
a moment or two, when part way over, I did think I should have 
to. This trestle was over Mill Creek, and on this Creek, at 
Emmons, is one of the two washed-away bridges. After each 
of the two big trestles, I stopped to rest and to wipe my per¬ 
spiring brow. 

The bunches of grass between the rails of the tracks are 
quite high in places, in consequence of which my feet have been 
soaking wet all day and my shoes still are. In other places, the 
sand or earth (earth is muddy to-day) or cinders make fairly 


1!56 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

good walking between the rails. At one wagon road crossing, 
the flanged top of one of the rails was very badly flattened. 

Got to Washington (12 miles from Hanover) at 12:15. 
Quite a large town. The postmaster signed at 12:45. Away 
again, after lunch, at 2 o'clock. Went down to depot, to shake 
the sand out of my shoes—wet sand isn’t easy to shake out. 
Loafed a while, talking with the station agent, who said there 
was only one trestle between Washington and Haddam. 

I found it, about a mile out of Washington, over another 
part of Mill Creek. A man sitting by it, with two boys, sugges¬ 
ted some one had better go over it with me. But I played brave, 
and went over alone. It was nice to know that they were there, 
and that if I stopped one of them would come to my aid—pro¬ 
bably. 

Got to Morrow at 4:50. Station agent said Haddam was 
8 miles farther, and asked: 

“Are you hoofing it?” 

I owned up to that mode of locomotion. 

Another long trestle a little over a mile east of Haddam, 
I think it was; am somewhat mixed up on trestles, I’ve crossed 
so many to-day. 

Before I got to Morrow (Post office is Morrowville), sev¬ 
eral half-grown cattle came out on the railroad track ahead of 
me. I tried to shoo them to one side, but they wouldn’t shoo; so 
went to one side myself. Got close to the wire fence, but grown 
cattle were in the cornfield. So crossed the railroad to the other 
side, through a gate into a cornfield there (which had not 
cattle in it), and followed the fence down to a creek (I called it 
“crik” quite naturally at supper to-night): over a barbed wire 
fence, through the creek, and back over on the tracks with 
a short trestle between me and the cattle. An addition to the 
group—a half-grown bull—had appeared by that time, and he 
stamped and shook his head and tried to follow me down the 
track, but the trestle stopped him. So trestles are some good, 
after all. The weeds were so high at the sides of the track 
and came up so close to the ties that he didn’t see he could have 
crossed the water at the side. Perhaps I shall get used to barbed 
wire fences, as well as trestles, but it took me a long while 
to get over this one. Seeing these cattle reminds me that it 
is so long since I have seen loose cattle, that about a week ago, 
when I passed a couple of cows feeding on the roadside, I got 
up close to the fence to go past them, as wary as in the long 
ago when I started on this walk. 

And how long ago it does seem that I started I It may 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


157 


be, by time, only a little more than two months, but it is really 
ages—time, except at night when darkness is coming, no longer 
means hours, but miles. 

Just after getting around the cattle on the railroad, a 
team drove across the track (at a wagon road crossing, of 
course) and stopped. Asked the usual questions, and got the 
usual replies. Implied doubt of my having walked so far, and 
I said (so many Missouri people gave me to understand that 
they doubted it): 

“You’re from Missouri.” 

“Yes; came over from St. Jo on the train last night,”— 
very much pleased. 

A man in another team called to me, but I didn’t stop; 
hadn’t the time to explain why I couldn’t ride into town. 

Those cattle must have taken up a lot of time, if it is only 
6 miles from Washington to Morrow, and it took me from 2 till 
4:50—almost half an hour to each mile! 

Got to Haddam (14 miles from Washington and 8 from 
Morrow) at 7:15, a little over 2 V 2 hours after leaving Morrow. 
I got a timetable to figure up the railroad mileage by, and found 
the part with these stations had been cut out; got another, and 
find it is 26 miles by railroad between Hanover and Haddam. 
Here they say it is 30 miles by wagon road. Then I also walked 
a mile in Washington, and walked round some in Hanover and 
here in Haddam. 

Met a man—either tramp or farmer—on the railroad, just 
before two trestles—one of them an iron bridge. At the first 
one, I glanced back, and he had turned round and was watching 
me. Perhaps if I had not started to cross, he would have come 
back and walked over with me—but again I played brave. 
Must have walked about twenty trestles, big and little, to-day. 

Through here, a “trestle” is where the railroad is built 
across a low place or water on wooden framework; a “bridge”’ 
is where there is iron framework that comes - up above the 
track. A good distinction. I rather like the bridges rather 
better than the trestles—the framework somehow gives a sense 
of protection,—should say, I hate them a little less than I hate 
the trestles. 

Hotel proprietor here is intelligent about the trip. Sug¬ 
gested that I go “down in the parlor”, but I didn’t; am too tired, 
and I want to get to bed as soon as this is written. He assured 
me,— 

“No one will bother you.” Why should anyone think of 


158 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


assuring me of that? I know they mean it for kindness, but 
the idea of anyone bothering me never enters my head. 

All Kansas is divided into square sections (six-mile squares, 
they tell me), shown on my map of Kansas. Roads are sup¬ 
posed to run on these section lines—north-south roads, and 
east-west roads. These six-mile sections are divided into 
1-mile-square sections, and roads (when there are any) are sup¬ 
posed to be on these 1-mile section lines. The section miles are 
air-line miles. If four or five hills come inside a section mile, 
making the road perhaps really IVz or two miles from one 
section line to another, so much the worse for the poor tramper, 
and so much the better for the farmer who has that section 
of land, as he has just that much more ground surface than a 
neighbor who has a section of flat land. If the wagon road 
is practically level, as it is now and then, and has no curves in 
it, then a section mile is only a mile long. The roads do some¬ 
times have curves; for though appearing on the Government 
maps, they tell me, as straight roads running on the section 
lines, yet the roads actually on the land have been made by the 
settlers, and sometimes turn or curve to get near a farmhouse, 
or cross land elsewhere than on section lines. But, omitting 
consideration of such curves or turns, suppose, I want to get 
from A to B, the latter 15 miles directly west of A: this may 
involve going, say directly west 5 miles; then there is a grain 
field, and it is necessary to turn with the road, say 2 miles 
north; then the road runs say 3 miles west, 3 miles south, 5 
miles west again, and 1 mile north, then 2 miles west to B. 
This makes say 19 section miles to get from A to B, which are 
only 15 section miles apart on a direct east-west line. Each 
turn represents where the road will—maybe—sometime run, 
but where now there is a fence or cultivated fields of a ranch, 
or even ranch buildings. And when you think of all the up and 
down hills besides, that don’t count as distance travelled in these 
parts! 

After this dissertation on the pecularities of section miles, 
I’ll go to sleep. 

HADDAM TO SCANDIA, KANSAS 

Thursday, August 19. 

A newspaper man at breakfast said that the Kansas winds 
and weather aren’t so bad as the natives say; that in 1913 there 
was a bad drought; and that this year has been unusually rainy 
and cold; but altogether, Kansas weather isn’t so very bad. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


159 


The hotel man, when I asked for a third cup of coffee, said he 
“shouldn’t like to have to buy drinks” for me, if I drank them 
like I did coffee. I allowed in would be hard on him. 

Left the hotel at 8:15 a.m. Went in to the railroad station 
to discuss mileage and weather probabilities with the agent. 
Started southwest on the railroad track, meaning to take a west 
road into Belleville without going to Cuba; but the first road 
was too muddy to walk, and I turned back and kept the rail¬ 
road for a while longer. When the sun had been out for a time, 
and somewhat dried the mud, within a mile of Cuba on the rail¬ 
road, I took a westward road. After a mile (a section mile) 
west, the road turned south a mile to Cuba, and so did I, though 
I was much inclined to keep on west across a creek and up a 
lane over a hill. From Haddam to Cuba 11 miles, 9 mostly on 
the railroad, and the last 2 section miles. 

In Cuba went down to the railroad station to ask where the 
“Rock Island Highway”, which I am still following in a way, 
crossed the track on its way to Belleville. The station agent 
was curious, naturally; I talked there till 1 o’clock—rather, the 
agent talked. Had a drink at the depot well, but he let me pull 
the bucket up myself—that seems to be the way through here. 
However, he came out to tell me to drink out of the bucket— 
which I didn’t need to do, having my aluminum mug. 

Got to Cuba at 12:15. Was told the Post Office at Belle¬ 
ville was some distance from the railroad, so went to the 
Cuba Post Office, where the postmaster, a young woman, signed 
at 1:30 p.m. Had lunch at a restaurant opposite the post office. 

Took the Rock Island Railroad for Belleville. The two 
longest trestles in the five miles I walked the railroad, were 
“tinned over,” and filled with broken stone. The track is not 
built for the use of tramps; between the ties, both inside and 
outside the rails, and also outside the ends of the ties, it is 
filled with sharp broken stone—heaps of it. Have to step on 
the ties, most of the time on the ends of them outside the rails, 
because the broken rock comes over the ties between the rails. 
There is the advantage that there are no cinders or gravel to 
get inside my shoes, as in places on the Grand Island road. But 
it’s hard walking. Saw no snakes, and only two or three baby 
toads. Don’t know whether snake-holes and snakes are scarce 
because toads are scarce, or whether both snakes and toads 
are scarce on account of the roadbed being filled with broken 
rock. On the Grand Island, there were lots of snake-holes 
(or what I thought were), and I saw a few snakes, and lots 
of toads. 


160 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


After 3 o’clock, asked some men who were ploughing out a 
drain at the side of the railroad, how far Belleville was: 

“Five miles, but take the dirt.” Said the railroad was 
very bad walking, and the dirt road good all the way. The 
road crossing was some little distance back. They said not to 
go back; to cross a field, and through a back yard, where there 
was a dog (as I could see), but,— 

“Why that dog wouldn’t bite an orange”. 

And as for the two colts frisking in the field I would have 
to cross, they belonged to a lady,—“Just a lady’s whim,” and 
harmless. However, I went back to where the road crossed the 
railroad. 

The first mile of the six road miles was good walking—the 
road had been scraped since the rain. (If the roads are to be 
scraped at all after a rain, they have to be scraped very soon, 
or the dirt hardens in ridges and humps almost as hard as 
brick). The other five miles were worse walking than the 
broken stone of the railroad. And the road, besides being hilly, 
was winding in some places. Wonder how many miles that six 
section miles on the road really were! 

Got to Belleville (road came into town by the railroad 
station) a little before 5 p.m. Had a cup of fine coffee and 
doughnuts in station restaurant (good!). Asked a brakeman 
on the platform how far it was to Scandia: 

“Oh, 12 or 13 miles.” 

That sounded bad. I started down the railroad at 5.05. 
Skipped from one tie to another just as fast as my dirt-road 
weary feet would let me. Got to Rydal at 6:45. There went 
into the depot and asked the station agent about when the trains 
would pass me—I like to know, so I can look out for them on 
the trestles. Woman in the ticket office said there would be no 
more trains tonight over that road. Before I had hardly 
time to feel glad over that, a man in the office bobbed up and 
said that the “west passenger” was late and hadn’t come yet; 
was due to pass Rydal, according to the latest information he 
had, about 7:30. (The “west” train is the train going west, 
not the one coming from the west.) 

Before I got to the first long trestle, the “west passenger” 
passed me—and it was “going some”. It must have made up 
a lot of time after I left the Rydal station, as it swooped by me 
at 7:20. The two long trestles were high, and not tinned over. 
There were several short ones, but rather high. Or did the 
twilight make these trestles seem higher than they were? 
These Rock Island trestles do not have the extra plank length- 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


161 


wise underneath that the Burlington trestles have. That makes 
these seem worse. I’m really proud of myself—to think of my 
navigating those trestles alone. But crossing them makes me 
very limp and perspire awfully; and generally when I get across 
I have to sit down on the rail and wipe my brow and get myself 
together before I walk on; often, too,—though at each trestle 
I tell myself I shall watch out and not do so,—I find I have 
bitten down on my lower lip hard while crossing, sometimes 
finding it bleeding when I get across—but I get across! The 
various trestles today were over creeks that feed the Republican 
River. 

Between Rydal and Scandia, I stopped to shake the sand 
out of my shoes, first looking all round—a habit I’ve acquired. 
Neither person nor animal in sight. I glanced up again, and 
there not twenty feet from me, was a man. It was startling 
to see him on the track where nothing had been that very in¬ 
stant. I went on, and he passed me just before he turned off 
and jumped a fence into a ranch. 

After it got dark, there was a very horrid curve on the 
railroad, with apparently woods ahead, which turned out to be 
only some trees at one side of the track. 

I reached the Scandia depot about 8:30. Not bad for the 
distance from Rydal,—6:50 to 8:30. I had added to the rail¬ 
road distance, by turning off to a lighted street I saw before 
I reached the depot, but after a short time it didn’t look en¬ 
couraging, and I turned back to the railroad and went on to the 
station, slowly past some freight cars, the water tank, etc.,— 
slowly, because I seemed to be in an uncertain place. 

The station agent told me the main street was % of a mile 
north from the station. And that % mile was up a street with 
trees on the sides, and I heard dogs barking, and I was so tired 
that I knew I couldn’t hurry any more, and—worst of all—I 
had been so sure of finding myself at the town when I should 
reach the station! 

I followed directions, up to the main street, where I had 
a glass of milk and a glass of root beer. 

The wagon roads through here are neither “pikes” nor 
“wagon roads”, nor “roads,” nor even “dirt roads,”—all of 
which they have been in different sections of the country. Here 
they are simply “the dirt”. “Take the dirt” to such a place. 
“He came the dirt.” Dirty they are—black earth. 

When I have spoken of how bad the Kansas roads are when 
wet, the people tell me that the roads are good, “Kansas has 
the best roads of any State;” that the fault is with the weather, 


162 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


—’“of course, if it rains, the roads are wet, but that’s not the 
fault of the roads.” The roads dry up in a few hours after 
it stops raining, but they bake hard, into the ruts and humps 
the wheels and horses’ feet have left. When scraped soon 
enough after a rain, they are fine for walking on. To-day, 
except for the scraped mile, walking on the roads was like 
walking on the cattle-guards of the railroad near the crossings. 

Met one of the real genus tramp on the railroad to-day. 
He merely grunted his ‘“owduh,” in reply to my “Good evening.” 
After I met my second tramp, back in Ohio, I made up my mind 
to speak to every tramp I met, so that they would not think 
I was afraid of them and also in the hope that it would not occur 
to any of the highwayman-dispositioned tramps to think I was 
anything but a tramp myself, and so, of course, had not any 
money with me. 

Heard a tale of woe from a man on the road. His wife 
left him four years ago,—she “didn’t care anything” about him. 
At present, the children are on a visit to the mother in another 
State; etc., eic. Perhaps it is a relief for people to tell me 
their woes, to talk to someone they never saw before and never 
will see again. 

Made about 34 miles to-day: Haddam to Cuba, 11 miles; 
Cuba to Belleville, 11 miles (added a little to this by running 
round); Belleville to Scandia, nearly 11. Then from the 
station up here, etc., nearly a mile. 

Some one in the next room is snoring more or less; just as 
it gets down to less, it grows more. A few minutes ago some 
one else was having bad dreams and was making strange noises 
—the uncanny “asleep” noises. Every little while, a mule 
somewhere (luckily, not too near) starts up and brays a little 
(do mules “bray”?). 

It’s 11:40 p.m., and I want an early start to-morrow. 
SCANDIA TO MANKATO, KANSAS 

Friday , August 20. 

Didn’t get away till 8:45 this morning. Took “the dirt” 
out of Scandia, across a bridge over the Republican River, 
and a mile or two of level road, with a number of mudholes 
in it. 

Some cows in a pasture, seeing me, started toward me. 
When they got to the apology for a fence between their pasture 
and the road, the head cow, much to my surprise and seemingly 
to her own, walked out on the road, under the one strand of 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


163 


barbed wire. I was much pleased that she preferred the corn¬ 
field (unfenced on the road side) next to her pasture, to a 
closer acquaintance with me; the rest followed her example. 

A short distance farther on, there was so much water 
in the road that the teams had made a road around it through 
a field. I took the field road; and presently ahead of me ap¬ 
peared several loose horses, four or five colts, and a dapper 
little mule. I got under the one strand of barbed wire that 
separated the new field road from the regular, and now under¬ 
water, highway, and waited by a tree for them to go past. 
They decided not to go past, but sampled corn and grass and 
weeds around there. The mule, with all a mule’s inquisitive¬ 
ness, thought me quite worth investigating. He came toward 
me and in response to my waving my bag at him, turned his 
back, kicked up his heels. The strand of barbed wire was only 
half way up the posts, and any of the animals could have 
stepped over it. They wouldn’t go away, so I had to. I did 
dislike leaving my vantagepoint behind the tree; but while 
Mr. Mule nibbled some corn leaves, with his heels turned to me, 
I sidled along the sloping bank of the muddy road,—in which 
the water stood in too-deep muddy pools for me to attempt 
to walk the road,—and got away. 

A little farther along, some men were putting straw into 
the mud holes in the road. They said they had turned the 
horses back. The cows that had walked out of the pasture had 
been living on “dry pasture”, and these men had no sympathy 
with the man who owned them. 

A dog that was with the men, suddenly saw me and barked; 
of course, I jumped, it was so unexpected. One of the men 
wanted to know: 

“What will you do, if you are afraid of dogs, when you get 
out on the prairies where the mountain lions are?” 

It hardly seemed worth while to suggest that I was more 
likely to meet prairie wolves than mountain lions on the prairies. 
Didn’t tell him what I would do in either case, as I hadn’t my¬ 
self decided. 

After a couple of hills, the road was level until it got to 
the railroad track just north of Courtland,—7 section miles 
from Scandia, they said. I knew the railroad runs from Court- 
land to Mankato, passing through Formoso and Montrose. So 
I figured that the railroad would be shorter than the wagon 
road, and took it. 

I was glad to find the roadbed unlike the rocky one I walked 
on yesterday, and more like the Grand Island roadbed—grass 


164 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


growing between the rails, etc. Although Formoso was only 
five railroad miles from Courtland, it seemed a very long time 
before a town came in sight. The track didn’t seem to me to 
be going in the right direction—seemed to go too sharply north¬ 
west, and not enough west. At a road crossing I waited for a 
team that was coming, and asked the woman in it some ques¬ 
tions: but like other women through here I have tried to get 
information from, she knew nothing about the roads or towns. 
She said I was going in the right direction for Mankato; and, 
when I said it seemed to be going too much north and too little 
west; she laughed: 

“You’re just like me, I always get mixed up; but you’re 
going right.” 

Even when I got to the station, and it was labeled “Lover- 
well”, it didn’t occur to me I had been walking on the wrong 
railroad. Simply thought Formoso must have been an un¬ 
labeled crossing stop and I had got by without noticing it. 

Went to the Lovewell post office, where the postmaster 
signed my slip at 1:50. Then back to the hotel to try to get 
lunch. Of the three places marked “Restaurant”, only one 
was running, and that one for some reason was closed to-day. 
At the hotel: 

“Dinner’s over; haven’t anything baked.” 

After much urging, the woman got me a quarter of a large 
apple pie and a cup of cold coffee, and it being the last coffee 
in the pot, was mostly dregs. 

While waiting, I looked at my map, and for the first time 
noticed a little railroad running northwest from Courtland to 
Lovewell. That road I had taken, and walked seven miles 
northwest to Lovewell, instead of five west to Formoso! 

Back to the post office to make inquiries. The postmaster 
really knew about the dirt roads; he used to live farther west 
in Kansas. The nearest way to get to Mankato was 20 miles 
by dirt road, and it was hilly. Burr Oak, he said, was about 
the same distance; but going there would add to my to-morrow’s 
walk also. Either stay at Lovewell or walk those 20 miles to 
Mankato. At 2:40 p.m. I started on the “V/ 4 miles south V 2 

mile west, 4V 2 miles south,”—this bringing me to Formoso_ 

“and then west into Mankato,” as Mr. Postmaster directed. ’ 

I fled up and down those hills faster than I have walked 

on this trip before. It wasn’t as if it was only 20 miles,_but 

20 section miles, which make no allowance for up and down hills. 
Was tempted to take the railroad at Formoso, but was told it 
comes into Mankato “north of the town”, while the Rock Island 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


165 


Highway comes into the town itself. Stopped at Montrose 
long enough to drink two glasses of water and a bottle of “cream 
soda”. The man in the store, when I asked for water, got a 
pail of fresh water instead of giving me a drink of the water 
already there. 

Between Montrose and Mankato are some bad hills, steep 
and rocky. As I went up one of the steepest, the biggest snake 
that I ever saw loose (though some water moccasins were nearly 
as big) crawled slowly across the road. He was so long that his 
head was well across the righthand wheeltracks and across the 
sand on the other side of the road before his tail had got across 
the other wheel tracks. My 20-mile hustle was temporarily 
suspended—forgotten. I waited till the end of his tail was well 
across and away from the road, before Mankato again had my 
attention. 

All the way up the last long hill before coming down into 
Mankato (only I didn’t know it was the last one), I had been 
watching, in the dark, something ahead of me on the road. I 
could just make out something moving, and realized that I was 
overtaking it. Because it was dark, I didn’t dare to walk slow; 
and fervently hoped that when I overtook it, there would be a 
convenient fence to go over or under, in case it was a loose 
horse or cow. At the top of the hill, a big covered wagon was 
standing at the roadside, a woman and children with it, and a 
man in the field breaking off corn. I asked if that thing ahead 
was a horse or a cow. They said it was a man; and the corn- 
puller began assuring me,— 

“It’s only an old man that lives in the town—a nice old 
man—don’t be afraid.” 

“I’m not afraid of a man—I was afraid it was a loose horse 
or cow.” Yet they kept assuring me he was harmless. 

When I overtook the man, who was elderly, we walked into 
town together. He had a large dark-colored bulldog with him, 
“an expensive, imported animal”, he said, belonging to his son. 

The man came down to the corner to show me this hotel, 
pointing out his own house as we passed it. Said there were 
two hotels in town, the one just as good as the other. He 
seemed much more Middle-west than Kansasian. Then I went 
to a lunch room and had a cold supper. 

Got here to Mankato at 8:15,—20 section miles in 5 hours 
25 minutes. 

Have walked 27 section miles and 7 railroad miles; and the 
up and down hills must have added four or five miles. Making 
about 38 miles to-day. And yet—here I am at Mankato, only 


166 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


23 railroad miles from where I started this morning. Very 
tired. 

There was one comfort in my 20-mile rush: I didn’t need 
to take thought of any trestles. 

It’s 10:30 p.m.; and I had promised myself to go to bed 
early to-night. That is, I did this morning, when I thought I 
had only 23 miles to make to-day, and would get here early, and 
write letters, and have a long night’s sleep. 

MANKATO TO BELLAIRE, KANSAS 

Saturday , August 21. 

Last night, seeing three of the panes of glass out of my 
window, and another one broken, I didn’t struggle to get the 
window open, even though a stick that I could have propped 
it open with lay in the corner of the room on the floor. I was 
so very tired, and it takes so much energy and strength to 
struggle with these refractory windows to get them open! 

This morning, waking with a bad headache, I took a powder 
and dozed again. When I did get up, with my headache as bad 
as ever, found I had spilled the powder instead of taking it— 
naturally a powder spilled around had not cured my head. 
Found, too, that the missing panes of glass were not missing, 
only clean, and so looked as if there was no glass there: head¬ 
ache explained. Forgot to wind my watch last night—first 
time on the trip. 

Had breakfast at restaurant, and started about 8:15 a.m. 
Came on to Lebanon by wagon road: 22 section miles, if I 
counted right, and think I did (19 by railroad). On the way, 
got one drink of water; the man brought the pail and dipper to 
the fence; said he had got no fresh water to-day, the well was sc^ 
far from the house. Even so, it wasn’t half bad; have had to 
drink worse tasting water lots of times on this walk. 

As always, the drink while walking made me thirsty. Be¬ 
fore I got to Lebanon, my mouth got so thirsty (that is a differ¬ 
ent kind of thirst from my throat being thirsty) that it seemed' 
as if anything, even an apple, would be good. Couldn’t find an 
apple, so went into a cornfield and picked a small ear of green 
corn. Most of the ear was no good, but the little that was 
tasted very nice. Went into another field, and picked another 
a little wee one, and that made me feel sickish. 

Arrived at Lebanon at 3:30. All the stores, and even the 
post office, were closed. The city was holding its Annual Cele¬ 
bration. Two blocks on Main Street were given over to all 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


167 


sorts of amusements; among them, a Ferris wheel and a merry- 
go-round. Those two blocks were crowded like Washington 
Street, Boston, at its busiest time. Everybody in the city, and 
those who had come in from the surrounding country and 
other towns, tried to get on those two blocks at the same time— 
and I think they all succeeded. People were surprised that I 
should inquire what the celebration was—of course everyone 
ought to know! 

Had lunch in a restaurant, and some icecream. A fat man 
in the restaurant seemed interested in my trip, and the proprie¬ 
tor of the place was interested in the fat man’s interest; and 
when the “prop” brought me a glass of milk, he leaned over 
very confidentially, with: 

“What’s on?” 

My “Nothing”, seemed to surprise and disconcert him. 
Tw t o women in there were more than rude in their way of 
staring and talking. 

After lunch, went back to the Post Office. The slides were 
all closed, but the Postmaster was back of the boxes. At last I 
got his attention, and he noted on my slip, with town and date: 

“The ladie arrived at this office 5 p.m. Looking well on her 

way to Sanfrisco.” 

He was a pleasant little man, who didn’t seem to approve of my 
coming any farther to-night; maybe he thought 22 section miles 
—probably nearer 25 real miles—were enough for one day’s 
walk. But I don’t think I could have slept in a town that had 
imported Coney Island amusements for its Annual Celebration. 

Yesterday for about half a mile, and part of the way to-day, 
there were sunflowers along the sides of the road, the blossoms 
only about half as large as those of Eastern sunflowers. 

Many of the cornfields I passed have no fence on the side 
next the road—so different from the other States I have crossed. 

Left Lebanon at 5:15 p.m. for Bellaire—seven more section 
miles. 

Got to Bellaire about 7:3-0, too late for supper, so bought 
some tomatoes in the store, where I did a little other shopping. 

When the woman at the house where I am staying brought 
me upstairs, I noticed the window had no shade. I mentioned 
this, and she said that she used to have shades, but “the men 
would yank them, and they would fall down,” and so now she 
didn’t have them; adding: 

“But it doesn't make any difference, does it?” 

“Oh, no,” I assured her. When she went down stairs, I 
pinned my raincoat up for a curtain. 


168 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


At one house I met on old man (the grandfather, I sup¬ 
pose,— an intelligent old man) who wanted to talk to me about 
my trip; but the woman of the house (daughter or daughter-in- 
law) wouldn’t let him. Whenever he began to talk, she would 
come and stand between us and begin talking of other things— 
deliberately interrupting in the middle of sentences. 

A thunder shower has just come up. I haven’t learned even 
yet to call them “electric storms”. 

BELLAIRE TO AGRA, KANSAS 

Sunday, August 22. 

Got away late—8:45 a.m., after breakfast in Bellaire. 

Took the railroad for about four miles, as Smith Center is 
south of the straight west line from Bellaire, and that would 
have meant a long right angle for me on the wagon road. A 
long trestle over a wide stream—Spring Creek—appeared on the 
railroad, and below, at the side of the railroad, with a kind of 
path down to it, the “Rock Island Highway”, with a nice con¬ 
crete bridge over the water. I took the Highway. It was 
reasonably level and unreasonably muddy for the next two miles 
into Smith Center—the county seat of Smith County. Stopped 
there and had lunch and buttermilk—best butterimlk I ever 
tasted, I think. 

Asked the restaurant man about the road to Phillipsburg, 
and he said “the bridge is out on the south road”; that I must 
go north V 2 mile and take the north road, and then come back 
the mile to the south road, that being Y 2 mile south of Smith 
Center. I said I was walking and could get across the south 
road if that was the shortest way to Phillipsburg. But he 
kept insisting:— 

“You can’t get through.” 

His daughter and some young men in the restaurant tried 
to make him understand I was walking; but, as no one in Kan¬ 
sas ever walks anywhere, he knew I was in a car or a team; the 
word “walking” meant nothing to him. I have noticed that all 
through these Middle West States almost no one (except oc¬ 
casionally a man) seems to walk any; and many women do not 
seem to go outside their own towns—and the towns are not more 
than half a mile square, even the larger ones. 

I went south to the railroad; and, on advice of a man 
there, took the railroad for half a mile, until the Rock Island 
Highway crossed it; then followed that road for nearly 14 miles 
to Kensington. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


169 


Athol and Kensington both lay half a mile or more to the 
left (south) of the road. Opposite the latter place, I got water 
at a house on the road I was travelling, and had a long talk. 

These people visualized my trip more than most of those 
I meet. The mother and father have been to California over 
the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad (which I mean to follow from 
Canon City west), and the father seems to know those States 
pretty well. Many of the people I have been meeting in Kansas, 
just as in Missouri, aren’t interested in the trip, but want 
to know how much I will get out of it, how old I am, if my par¬ 
ents are living, what relatives I have, and where. At this house 
they were different; and, of course, some others have been, 
—but not very many of the ones who have talked to me; pro¬ 
bably I’ve been unlucky in not talking to many of those who 
would have been different. 

The road from Smith Center to Kensington was hilly: the 
5 miles from Kensington to Agra quite level, except foV one or 
two hills. 

Made 4 railroad miles to-day and 22 section miles; that is 
26 miles, plus whatever extra distance the hills made, probably 
a couple of miles, and about Yz mile in Smith Center; and about 
Yz mile down to Agra. 

Where I am here at Agra seems clean, and the supper was 
all right. Of course, I was late for supper, and so had to take 
cold food. The charge is higher than in most places through 
the country here; but what diff, for I have a mirror! small, 
'tis true. Also, linen napkins on the table at supper. Don't 
remember when I have had the luxury of one before; when the 
hotels and restaurants have furnished any, they have been paper 
ones. So why grudge a little extra charge, when I get a linen 
napkin (a clean one, too), and a mirror in my room. There 
was fruit on the table, also, and I ate a plum, an orange and a 
banana!—not because I was hungry, oh, no! but just to sample 
them. 

It seems as if everyone who spoke to me today said that 
this was the hottest day this summer; and as I passed people 
who didn't speak to me, I heard comments on the terrible heat 
of the day. It was some hot! Now it is flashing lightning 
and rumbling thunder. 

No postmaster's signature to-day. 

Have left a call for 5:30 to-morrow morning: first walking 
day on this trip that I've left one, I think. 

Both yesterday and to-day I promised myself I would 
tumble right into bed as soon as I got scrubbed up. But both 


170 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


evenings I have jes’ nat’rally started scribbling—this Daily 
Bulletin habit is as hard to get out of as it was painful to get 
into. 


AGRA TO PRAIRIE VIEW, KANSAS 

Monday , August 23. 

Last night it rained, and the lightning was very bright, 
and it was very hot in my room: the roof was sloping; only one 
little window. If I lay with my head at the head of the bed, 
it was directly under the window and the lightning was too 
bright for comfort; if I put my head at the foot of the bed, there 
was no air and I smothered. I didn’t sleep much, what with 
changing back and forth in order to sleep. 

Left Agra at 7:05 this morning. The road was so very 
muddy that I took the railroad. Just before a long, high 
trestle over Plum Creek, waited for a train to pass. The stream 
below didn’t look very wide, so I went down the banking at the 
side of the track, zigzagging through the grass and weeds (the 
bank being very steep), and then over a barbed wire fence to 
the stream. It was far too wide to jump across, and the banks 
were steep and muddy. Got dJown close to the water, and tried 
to reach bottom with my foot (holding on to a bush on the 
bank). When the water came up to my knee, I hadn’t touched 
the mud yet; and knowing that the mud at the bottom was 
likely to be a foot or two deep, I began to climb back to the 
railroad. 

Along the track came a handcar of ties, pushed by some 
section hands, and back of that a handcar with one man on it. 
I called to him and asked him to wait; he said I would have a 
hard job to get up that bank—but he had never climbed Mount 
Chocorua by the untrailed side. When I reached him, I ex¬ 
plained that I couldn’t ride, but thought if I walked across 
the bridge close behind his handcar I wouldn’t mind the trestle 
so much. Soon he told me I had better take hold of the back 
of the handcar. So I rested my hand on it. Anyway, I walked 
across even if I did have my hand on the back of the car. 
He said as a boy he couldn’t walk bridges, while all the other 
boys enjoyed it; and now his work is principally crossing 
bridges. (Here they don’t use the word “trestle”; it is always 
“bridge”.) 

This bridge is 68 feet liigh—over half as high as the Ames 
Building in Boston. If I had only walked it without all that 
fuss, I should pat myself on the head; but in that case I would 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


171 


never have known it is 68 feet high, for I wouldn’t have been 
talking to a bridge man. 

I knew he was wondering how such a scardie would ever get 
to San Francisco. I intimated as much, and his reply was more 
enlightening than encouraging: 

“There are a lot of high bridges on those railroads through 
the mountains.” 

Poor little me! I can see myself crawling on hands and 
knees over them. 

Went on to Phillipsburg, where the postmaster signed at 
12 noon. He is the kind of person that Western young men 
are supposed to be,—talkative, breezy, good-natured,—though 
he is the first of that pattern I have met on this trip. Got 
lunch there, and a letter, in reply to one I had written to Oneida, 
asking that a knife I left there should be forwarded to Phillips¬ 
burg. The knife had not been found, and my stamps were re¬ 
turned. Before I left Oneida, I had heard something drop on 
the floor of my room, but saw nothing; later in the day, I missed 
my knife, and thought it must have been what I had heard fall. 

Left Phillipsburg at 1:30 Central Time. The time changes 
at Phillipsburg from Central to Mountain time on the railroad; 
but the Post Office and people generally use Central Time. 
Have got entirely away fron “Sun Time,”—than which “there 
can be none more correct”, as several people in Ohio informed 
me, when I asked if they used Eastern or Central Time. “Sun 
time” seems to be somewhere between the two; when the sun 
is directly overhead, it is 12 o’clock noon. 

Got to the Post Office at Prairie View at 6:30 p.m. I had 
intended to go on to Almena to-night; but, getting suddenly very 
tired about two miles east of Prairie View, I stopped here. 
Did a very little shopping. Have made about 25 railroad miles 
to-day, and walked about 1 mile in Phillipsburg. 

No lock on the door; no mirror. Most places lately have 
had no way of fastening the door; though sometimes I have had 
a mirror. 

Had supper in restaurant; am to have breakfast to-morrow 
morning here where I have a room. 

PRAIRIE VIEW TO DELLVALE, KANSAS 

Tuesday , August 2b. 

This morning, at 8:05 a.m., I left Prairie View for Norton 
by wagon road. Went south a little way, then west for six miles. 
There the westward road changed to a lane, and a man in a 


172 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


team directed me to go north to a schoolhouse, then west 4 
miles, then south X A mile. So I went north (perhaps Vz mile) 
to the school house. Door was open, and in I went, to rest. 
A party of Indiana people had stayed there over night and writ¬ 
ten the fact on the blackboard; a man and his wife had stayed 
there and noted it. Another party wrote that they had camped 
in the yard. So I wrote that I had rested therein on my walk, 
and, “For the open door, much thanks.” 

From there, 2 miles west on the wagon road; then 2 miles 
of lanes, up and down steep, limestone hills. These 2 miles 
were sure bad; but the road was overgrown with weeds, and 
wasn’t so hard on my eyes as some have been. At the end of 
the fourth mile west, got directions from another man in a 
team: turn mile south and then 7 miles west; after which, 
1 mile south, and Y 2 mile west into Norton. 

The Norton Fair is on (to-day is its first day), and most 
of the stores close from 12 to 5 every day during the four days 
of the Fair. Ordinarily, this would mean nothing to me. But 
my rubber heels are worn out—right off to the sole of the shoe 
on one side. After chasing round many places, on the chance 
of a shop being open, got leather heels put on. 

The shoemaker had read in some paper about my trip, 
as had the first man with the team who gave me directions. 
The shoemaker said, to tell them when I wrote back, that he had 
heeled my shoes; is very sure the heels will last a long time. 
Said he had soled shoes for men who said just what I did— 
that a comparatively thin sole and thin shoe were more com¬ 
fortable walking long distances than a heavy sole. He does 
considerable work for “harvest hands”; some of whom tell him 
that they pay for what they eat through the country, but won’t 
pay railroad fares. 

The “harvest hands” seem to be an institution of the 
Middle West particularly. Some are young men working during 
their college vacations; others are men who understand the 
work, and can make more by going round as harvest hands 
than by working in one place all the year; some are men with 
families, who go from place to place where harvesting is going 
on, with team and family, camping out while the work is going 
on; a few are men who have their own homes or small ranches or 
farms, and earn some extra money this way; a very few work 
only during harvest time,—almost of the tramp genus. 

The last seven miles into Norton were comparatively level. 
There was one very short limestone hill about 4 miles east of 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


173 


Norton that was some hot; the top was cut between banks, and 
for about three minutes there wasn’t a breath of air. 

At Norton Post Office, I was told there was a good place 
to stay here in Dellvale; and a traveling man corroborated this. 
I thought the post office people and the traveling man ought to 
know, though farther back on the road I had been told there 
was no place to stay over night at Dellvale. Posted D. B’s. at 
Norton, where the Postmaster signed at 1:40 p.m.; I left at 
5:05 p.m. 

After leaving Norton, took the railroad to Dellvale. And 
it was the longest nine miles! About 6:30 I met a well-dressed 
young man, who asked about the distance to Norton. I said I 
had left there about 15, so it was about 6 miles. He was 
very anxious to know the time, and I almost took out my watch. 
Before starting, I had made up my mind never to let anyone 
know I had a watch with me, by looking at the time when they 
asked me: if I had a watch—even an Ingersoll—they might sus¬ 
pect I had money, too. The man said he had left Dellvale at 
5 o’clock, and that it would be dark before I got there. Felt 
quite discouraged: it seemed Dellvale must be pretty far ahead 
of me, if it had taken him all that time to get where we were. 
Wonder if it had. 

When I got here, about 7:20, I found three houses and the 
station; and foreigners are living in the freight cars and sheds 
along the railroad. The telegraph operator said that when the 
postmaster comes home (keeps the store, and a white bulldog 
also), he will ask him about letting me stay at their house. 
When I said if I thought they wouldn’t, I would go on to the 
next town (8 miles), where there is a hotel, he said the post¬ 
master’s wife sometimes lets men stay over night and so will 
of course let me. 

About 28 miles today. Got to Norton at 1:30 and left at 
5.05, 6 miles plus % plus 4 plus 14 plus 7 plus 1 plus J4 plu's 
9 railroad miles equals 2814 miles. 

Am giving Canon City, Colorado, as my next address. 

Just now (9 p.m.) I am sitting in the railway station at 
Dellvale, waiting for the people who run the store to come home, 
to see if they will let me stay all night. They are at the Norton 
Fair, and “ought to be back by eleven o’clock,” the telegraph 
operator says. Meanwhile, their white bulldog stays on the 
store platform and howls, “He always does that when they’re 
away,”—and barks and growls when anyone passes. Perhaps 
he always does that, too. 


174 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


DELLVALE TO DRESDEN, KANSAS 

Wednesday , August 25. 

Last night, the postmaster and his people came home, and 
the telegraph operator went out—I think to ask them for a room 
for me (or “bed”—the people through here generally refer to 
a room for over-night as a “bed”). He came back but didn’t 
say anything to me, and went off duty. Meanwhile, it had 
“gone cold”,—the way the weather is referred to here. I won¬ 
dered if the young man had forgotten to ask, or if they had re¬ 
fused to have me in their house. There was a light in the 
post-office store; but it was long after 11 o’clock, and, thinking 
of their bulldog, I didn’t like to go over. 

A man came over from the store, and, after asking him if 
he was the postmaster, I told him my tale of woe, and showed 
him my letter addressed to the Postmasters. He said for me to 
wait there at the depot and he would let me know what his 
wife said. It must have taken her a long time to say it: he 
didn’t come back. But, after a long while, two young girls 
came over, and said that “She” would let me sleep on a cot in 
a “place next door”, if that would do. 

Next to the post office was an old building used for stor¬ 
age, in which they had at one time let a boy sleep (or were let¬ 
ting him now), and up against the side of that (the side away 
from the store) was built a kind of shed, “lean-to”, sides and 
roof of all kind of boards, and with cement floor. It had a 
door and window on the street side; in it were a few things, a 
lamp and cot among them. The postmaster’s wife said the 
little girl used it for a playhouse. On the cot she folded a 
fragmentary comforter for a mattress, and put over it a thin 
quilt for my covering, saying, 

“You won’t need much, over you, will you,”—not a question, 
but an assertion. I said, I didn’t know. She also gave me a 
pillow. 

The place so cold I couldn’t go to sleep. Don’t think I slept 
an hour ^together the whole of the night—what was left of it. 
It was better than sitting up in the station, though undoubtedly 
much colder. 

I had told the Postmaster that I didn’t get supper at Norton 
because I had supposed I could get it at Dellvale. After his 
wife showed me where I was to sleep, I went into the store and 
bought some apples, oranges, and gingersnaps, after again re¬ 
ferring to the fact that I had expected to be able to buy supper 
at Dellvale. His wife and children were eating theirs in a room 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


175 


“back of the store, with the door open. They all looked at me 
when I said I had expected to buy it at Dellvale, but didn’t sug¬ 
gest I could have any there. 

While in the shed, the woman had told me that I could shut 
the door “if I cared to.” I did care to, thinking of all those 
queer-looking shacks round the railroad there. The men living 
in them look like the Mexican “Greasers” in Southern Califor¬ 
nia. I not only shut the door, but tipped a chair under the 
knob ,—the chair, I should say. 

It rained a little in the night, and of course rained through 
the roof of my shed; after a careful survey of the boards over¬ 
head, I moved my cot so none came on it. 

This morning, ate the rest of my fruit. Then went to the 
store, where the postmaster signed at 8:30 a.m. His wife was 
very interested—asking many questions about my walk. I 
asked where I could buy breakfast, or even a cup of coffee, 
—if Clayton was the nearest place I could get anything to eat. 
They agreed it was. 

“How far is it to Clayton?” 

“Eight miles.” 

Though last night was cold, to-day was hot. Had a 
horrible headache when I got to Clayton, on account of the 
eight hot miles before breakfast. I forgot to offer to pay the 
Postmaster’s wife for my “room” last night. I’m glad of it, too! 

To Clayton (8 railroad miles), partly by wagon road and 
partly by railroad. On the way, had chat with a man in a 
team, who told me where to go in Clayton for eats. Got there 
at noon, and had dinner in a little restaurant; fairly good. 

Some harvest hands were in the restaurant, discussing 
whether they should take the train out that day, or stay in hope 
of the harvesting machines being able to work. The rain had 
interfered with the harvesting. It seems the men get paid only 
for the days they work, and the working days depend on the 
weather. The farmers as a rule do not feed the so-called “har¬ 
vest hands”, men who come in only to work during the harvest; 
they have to board themselves or eat wherever they can get 
meals. So their high pay isn’t really as good as it sounds. 

From Clayton went on to Jennings, 7 railroad miles farther, 
where I got a sundae. Here a circus was putting up their tents. 
Half a mile out of Jennings, took the railroad for Dresden. 
Prarie Dry Creek runs near the railroad in places. 

Clouds came up, and thunder grumbled. For perhaps half 
an hour, it sprinkled rain. I didn’t put on my sweater; my waist 
got quite wet, but I expected the sun would come out and dry it 


176 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


before I should stop for the night. Just as I got to a road cross¬ 
ing the rain came down hard, with heavy thunder. The light¬ 
ning wasn’t so bad as usual through these States. I put on my 
raincoat and took the wagon road. Soon met a team, and 
learned the railroad was a mile shorter than the wagon road— 
4 miles by road, 3 by railroad. That mile seemed a long dis¬ 
tance in that storm; so I crossed a field, crawled through the 
barbed wire fence, and got on the railroad track again, and kept 
to it. I have heard worse thunder, but was glad when it 
stopped. 

East of Dresden, the railroad comes up grade a little. For 
a short time, while it was raining hard, that piece of track 
ahead looked like a shining solid road of water. The sun was 
almost out, and I suppose the drops hit so hard they bounced 
up and the light on them hid the track and left only the effect 
of a shining, misty water. 

Then, a rainbow, one end so close that the grass by the 
railroad fence was colored by it. It moved along as I walked. 
The fields and cattle and a house or two were colored by it, and 
then the railbow passed them. The effects of it apparently 
coming along with me was odd. I didn’t know that effect could 
be. 

Got here extremely wet. Have a bureau with fullsize 
mirror in it. No lock on the door, however, but who cares?— 
Not me. The bed had been made up with used linen, and I 
asked for clean. The woman said two boys had had the room 
and she expected 1 them back, and only put me in it because she 
had no other place; that she had meant to change the sheets. 
Guess it was true—I believe her, in spite of my past experiences. 

From Dellvale to Dresden, 24 railroad miles. The wagon 
road corners I took must have added 2 miles more at ieast. 

DRESDEN TO REXFORD, KANSAS 

Thursday , Ay gust 26. 

Didn’t get up this morning till they rapped on my door. 
After breakfast, did some mending, and got away about 8:40, 
Central Time. 

At the breakfast table in Dresden were some young men 
who are going through the country photographing; also a Kan¬ 
sas City young man (grain) who said he had passed me above 
Clayton yesterday and that I had refused to ride. I must have 
refused automatically and he gone right on, as I have no re- 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


177 


collection of it. To-night, at this hotel in Rexford, is a man who 
says he sat at the table with me this morning at Dresden. 

Came down the railroad (mostly) from Dresden to Selden 
(10 miles), getting there after one o’clock, Central Time. Went 
to one of the restaurants, and the table was full. A good sign, 
so I waited. The dinner was good: boiled potatoes, mashed 
sweet potatoes, noodles, and boiled beef. Whenever I get where 
they cook well, I can eat all right; so I’m sure it is the cooking 
and not my appetite that is at fault. Also, good coffee there. 
Two women did the cooking; a young man in blue overalls 
seemed to run the place. Considerable khaki-color is worn out 
here. Some of the men have straight one-piece suits of it, over¬ 
alls and jumper in one piece. 

After dinner, the Postmaster signed at 1:10 (mountain 
time). Selden is the first post office at which I have stopped 
where they have used mountain time. The railroads changed to 
it at Phillipsburg, but no one else has been using it until to-day. 
It seems as if the Post Offices would use it where the railroads 
do, since the mails go by train. 

For the past few days, I have seen a number of fields al¬ 
ready ploughed or being ploughed. Makes it seem like fall, as 
do the flocks of birds, blackbirds especially. 

Left Selden at 2:40 Central Time. Came down the rail¬ 
road for a couple of miles; then took the wagon road. It did 
seem good, after so much walking on the ties! The road ran 
nearly parallel to the railroad, first on the left, then crossed 
to the right, till about 1 % miles from Rexford, when the wagon 
road went off at an angle to the right, and I took the railroad 
again. Wagon road was level, though muddy, and water stand¬ 
ing in a number of places. Got my feet soaked in one place; 
but didn’t mind, as the road was mostly good walking. 

I have been keeping to the railroad so much since Norton, 
because I must get down south far enough to get into Colorado 
in the somewhat settled part, and of course that is along the 
railway line. To travel altogether by road, would nearly double 
my distance, on account of the section angles. They tell me 
that after Colby, Kansas is very “flat”; seems to me I have al¬ 
ready reached the very flat part. 

Several miles before getting to Rexford, I saw a man cross 
the railroad at one of the crossings ahead, and start across the 
fields on my right. Then he saw me, and stood still for a few 
minutes; then went on in the direction he had started. Sud¬ 
denly changed his mind, turned, and came towards me, passing 
some distance away; without turning his head toward me. 


178 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


The road was fenced only on the railroad side; on the other, 
open grain fields. After I got perhaps quarter of a mile past 
him, I turned round, and saw that he had changed back and 
was going across the fields in the direction he had first start¬ 
ed, before he saw me. Whatever reason he had for changing 
in the first place, he hadn’t changed his direction to get a look 
at me, for he didn’t pass close enough to see me well, but kept 
out in the grainfield. Seemed as if he hadn’t wanted any one 
to see him going in the direction he wanted to go. Wish I 
hadn’t seen him. No reason it should make me uncomfortable, 
but it does. Hope there won’t have been a murder or anything; 
and if there has been, hope I won’t hear of it. 

From one little rise in the road, I could see back to the 
Selden grain elevator, and ahead to what I took to be the Rex- 
ford elevator,—much farther off than the Selden one. Then I 
lost sight of both. Suppose it was some pecularity in the at¬ 
mosphere. 

Coming down the level road today, I could see across miles 
and miles of flat country, at times. 

I walked an extra mile or two this morning. Went out of 
my way to see a $26,000 German Catholic Church that was dedi¬ 
cated yesterday. It is at Leoville—a little place that seems to 
have about three houses and a store. The church has been a 
year building; was begun in August last year, and finished this 
month. The rail and altar, the altar weighing 6000pounds, are 
of white marble; there are some stone columns, small ones. 
The organ is not in yet, but is on its way to Leoville. Wonder¬ 
ful to have such a church out in the country, far from even a 
good-sized town! There were a number of people in and a- 
round the church,—some having come a considerable distance 
to see it. 

Going down to find the church, went too far down the rail¬ 
road before crossing off; met some people walking up to it, and 
they directed me. Met some rather rude young folks—young 
man and two girls—who were taking up the whole track, and 
they never moved to let me pass. 

Cloudy most all day; not much sunshine. Only 20 railroad 
miles from the town I left this morning. I’ve travelled perhaps 
22 miles. I said once Kansas was divided into six-mile squares, 
but I don’t know that it is. Each county seems to have divided 
itself up as it pleased, and I think some of the squares are more 
than six-mile ones. 

I certainly will be glad when the wagon roads are dry 
enough to walk again; although the wet weather came.at a good 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


179 


place in the trip—just where the slanting railroad saved me 
miles and miles of angles in wagon road walking. If there are 
stopping-places in the right towns, I can get out of Kansas in 
three days more. Levant is the logical end of to-morrow’s walk, 
25 railroad miles from here,—but there is no hotel there. 

At this hotel in Rexford I have a little mirror, and a 
window^shade, and a lock on the door, and a key that locks it 
from both outside and inside. 

All the small hotels through this country have chains or 
ropes fastened to the window frames, for fire escapes, with 
printed directions for using them. The sign here says: 

“In Case of Fire; raise the Window 
Grab the rope and Slide Down.” 

On this door, besides the regular notice of penalty for not 
paying one’s hotel bills, is: 

“Positively no gambling allowed in this hotel.” 

All the gambling I am doing is on getting to San Francisco 
by December 31. 

REXFORD TO COLBY, KANSAS 

Friday , August 27. 

Last night, in Rexford, the waitress (“table-girl,” I mean) 
said I could have breakfast at 6 o’clock if I wanted to go early; 
first said 6 Central Time, and changed it to 6 Mountain Time,— 
which latter meant 7 o’clock by my watch, and isn’t early these 
long days. I found this morning that she fooled me: I might 
have had it an hour earlier; suppose she didn’t want to come 
down early,—naturally. But that other hour would have meant 
much to me. 

At breakfast, I learned that the hotel had three 35-cent 
tables, and one 50-cent table (the one I was at); the difference 
being that the 50-cent table had sweet pickles and a dish of 
apples on it. Indiana man at table says that it is customary 
through the country part of Kansas; the other man at the 
table was also familiar with the rule. This explains why at 
times, in other towns, I have been quite sure that other people 
paid less for a meal than I did. Naturally, left to pick my own 
seat when I came into the dining room, I took the cleanest 
looking table—the least used one. In Northern Missouri they 
have a different price for natives of a town from “travelers”; 
and even nice-seeming Missouri men appear to think it is right 


180 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

to charge people passing through a town more than the towns- 

people. __ T ,, 

The man from Indiana was sniffing at “Western Ways 
this morning, considering Kansas “west”; while he spoke of 
Indiana as “East”. A matter of one’s viewpoint again. 

Got away about 8 a.m. Young man in post office at first 
said he was the Postmaster; then admitted he wasn’t, but said 
he was “just the same as the postmaster.” 

Had good-by and good-luck from the Indiana man, and also 
from the man who had been in Dresden when I was. 

Came down (down being southwest), partly on the railroad, 
past Breton and Gem. Above Gem, at a schoolhouse perhaps 
a quarter of a mile from the railroad, quite a little crowd had 
collected, and a buggy was standing in front of it. I wondered 
if any catastrophe had happened, and thought of the man I saw 
last night going across the field. Then, away ahead on the 
railroad, coming toward me, I saw men. I was sure some¬ 
thing was wrong if those men coming up the track were going 
over to the schoolhouse. Presently, when I saw the men on the 
railroad were only section hands, my uneasiness evaporated; 
probably the crowd at the schoolhouse was only a town meeting. 

About IVz miles west of Gem a ploughed-out road ran 
parallel to the railroad for perhaps a mile and a half, and I 
took it. Then crossed through the fence to the railroad and kept 
that for 2 or 3 miles, until I saw another road paralleling the 
track, and took that at the next crossing. It was only sandy 
wheel tracks, with weeds between and sunflowers on both sides. 
At first I thought there were thousands of sunflowers and 
millions of grasshoppers, but soon found there were millions of 
sunflowers and tens of millions of grasshoppers—mostly yellow 
ones. At places it was impossible to walk without stepping on 
them. Many locusts were flying around; and finding me dodg¬ 
ing so they wouldn’t hit my eyes, they batted me in the ears. 
Evidently sunflowers make good food for grasshoppers. The 
Kansans do not seem to think there are unusual numbers of 
them around. 

Seems to me the people are pleasanter through here, or else 
I am getting used to their ways. But they cannot give direc¬ 
tions about the roads or tell the distance from one town to an¬ 
other by wagon road. A native of one town does not seem to 
have any idea of the roads three miles beyond his own farm. 
On one side of the Gem Station, at a crossing, I met a team; 
man in it said Colby was ten miles by road. Kept on by rail¬ 
road to Gem station (not over Vz mile farther), and man sitting 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


181 


there said Colby was 14 miles by road. I kept the railroad till 
perhaps half a mile after I passed the “Station 1 mile” sign, and 
then took the ploughed road. 

Country quite level. At times I can see for miles and miles 
across it. Cloudy most of the morning; afternoon fine, and sun¬ 
shine, but not hot. 

Got here to Colby at 2:45 Central Time. Waited in the 
post office till the clerk pointed out the Postmaster coming down 
the street, on the other side. I went out and he came in and 
signed at “2:55 p.m. C. Time.” 

I wanted to get farther to-day; but, in order not to have 
another Dellvale night, got the telephone operator to telephone 
to Levant (next station west of here) to see if anyone there 
kept people over night. No one does. The next town beyond 
Levant—Brewster—is 19 miles from here, and as it was about 
4 o’clock by the time I had discovered there was no stopping- 
place at Levant, thought I had better not try to get to Brewster 
to-night. Not over twenty miles to-day including running 
round. 

After leaving Colby Post Office had a “cat-fish dinner” 
(no good); tried to fill up with a nut sundae. Did some shop¬ 
ping. Supper was not very good, either. So went up town 
tonight and got some peanuts, salted peanuts, and lemons. 

In one room I had this week,—the last one they had, the 
hotel lady said,—the spring of the curtain was run down, and 
she stood on the bed trying to fix it; then in came the “regular 
boarder” to help her. He got tools, and they worked over it. 
I know they would have left it as it was, had they known the 
unhappiness they were causing me—I was tired, and wanted 
them to go, so I could get a bath. At last they went; then I no¬ 
ticed a strange odor, called the landlady back again, and she 
agreed that it would be impossible to sleep in that room. She 
found she had another vacant room, and let me have that. It had 
two windows, one at the head of the bed and another part way 
down back of the bed, so I guess there was air enough to count¬ 
eract any bad effects, though that room seemed queer, too. I 
suspect the bed linen was the pressed^-out and used-over variety. 
No wonder I am getting thinner all the time! 

Haven’t made very good progress the last few days. Roads 
have been very muddy. It has rained a lot, making the mud 
unspeakably bad. Then the hotel-towns are too far apart. 
Yesterday I had to stop early, at Rexford, or walk long after 
dark; I stopped early. To-day, same thing: either stop at 
Colby or walk after dark; I stopped at Colby. Even when I do 


182 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

over 30 miles a day, that doesn’t mean I get 30 miles farther 
west; I don’t. Colorado is still several days off,—the third 
day from now ought to put me into that State. 

Some women have just been put in a room across the hall, 
who are to be waked at 2 o’clock tonight, to get a 2:50 train!!!!! 
And that means I probably won’t get to sleep again till near 
getting-up time. 


COLBY TO EDSON, KANSAS 

Saturday , August 28 . 

Left Colby (after breakfast) at 7:45 Central Time. Asked 
a man about the road west, and he evidently didn’t know— 
though he told me how to go! Met a young man with two mules, 
before I got out of Colby, and asked him where the road I was on 
went to: 

“West.” 

“West to where?” 

“Oh, west; far as you want to go.” 

“What town does it go to?” 

After thinking a while: “Levant.” Levant happens to be 
the next place west of Colby. 

As a matter of fact, the road only went a little way west, 
and ended in a farm. Very few of the people know about the 
roads—and yet they won’t admit they don’t. 

Just west of Colby I turned south a little way, then west; 
later, south a mile, and then west again, passing a little south 
of Levant. Level road, with a few rises and hollows. 

Several miles west of Colby I saw the first sod house I have 
seen on this trip. The doors were shut, but all the glass was out 
of the only window I could see—the one in the end nearest 
the road. I wanted to go into the yard and look in that window, 
but something kept me from it: The country was level, no other 
houses in sight, and I think it was something lonesome about the 
expanse I could see on every side. The roof (sodded over) had 
grass and weeds growing in the sods on it. 

After I had passed, I thought I saw a man looking out of 
the broken window after me. A few minutes later, black smoke 
began coming out of the stovepipe sticking through the roof. 
Was glad then I hadn’t gone and looked in. The closed doors 
ought to have told me someone was inside,—probably a tramp 
getting his breakfast. 

Some time afterward, I passed another, more pretentious 
sod house: it had once had a swell front and an ell at the back, 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


183 


and must have had five or six rooms; all the windows and doors 
were out. Saw small fragments of the walls of other sod 
houses in one or two places. The effect of the sods, off a little 
distance, is of mud bricks. 

A little past Levant, there is another % mile to the south; 
then west, crossing the railroad; and after another IY 2 miles, 
the road turns X A mile into Brewster. I cut off a little corner 
here by crossing a school yard. It does seem incredible that 
Kansas school children don’t cut corners, but take the long 
angles; there was no sign, however, of their going across-lots 
to school. The Brewster Postmaster signed at “1:20 Mt. Time.” 
Some quite hilly hills on the way from Levant to Brewster. 

Between Colby and Brewster there were quantities of sun¬ 
flowers—in some places on both sides of the road,—turning 
their blossoms to the south. Sometimes the plants themselves 
were bent toward the south. 

Left Brewster at 3:45 (Central Time) for Edson, where 
I was told the Postmaster might, or might not, let me stay at 
his house over night. After going west for a while from Brew¬ 
ster, I took a road 1 mile south; when the road crossed the 
railroad, and I saw that later I would have to come south again, 
I started down the railroad track. The walking was much 
better than it had been, so far, on the railroad,—sand between 
the ties in most parts. The dead things on the track were 
limited to a very few rabbits, birds, and two snakes. That is 
one thing that has made walking the railroad so horrid through 
the country,—the dead dogs, cats, and other small animals that 
have been killed by the trains. 

For several days I have been noticing that many of the men 
working on the railroad look like Southern California Mexican 
“Greasers.” I am told here that they are Mexicans; that nearly 
all the section hands on the railroad through here are. 

Most of the fields through this country are unfenced from 
the roads, except the cornfields. The fenced fields have often 
but one or two strands of barbed wire, strung along posts in a 
most slip-shod way. 

Got here to Edson, where the Postmaster signed at 5:15 
Mountain Time, and said I could ask his wife about staying over 
night. She let me stay at their house which is next to the 
Post Office. Had a good supper, and feel better, thank you. 
Mrs. Postmaster is especially nice and likeable. 

I have walked 30 miles to-day. 

Where I had dinner one day not long ago, there were two 
lunch rooms. A man told me one of them was not good. But 


184 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


the good lunch room was locked, so I went to a nearby hotel. 
The meal being over, the proprietress said to go to the restau¬ 
rant that was open. I said I had been told it was not very 
good. 

“Who said so?”—indignantly. 

“Oh, a travelling man I met.” 

Then I learned that this woman runs that restaurant as well 
as the hotel! Rather to my surprise, she got me a dinner. 

EDSON TO KANORADO, KANSAS 

Sunday , August 29. 

This morning, after a good breakfast at Edson, got away 
about 8:45 Central Time. It was 41 degrees this morning at 
getting-up time; 52 degrees when we got through breakfast. 

When I left Colby, was told that the “Rock Island Highway” 
ended at Colby; beyond, it was the “Gulden Belt Route”. But 
the Rock Island Highway signs are still up on the roads, as well 
as the “Golden Belt Road” signs. 

By wagon road from Edson to Goodland (9 miles by rail¬ 
road), except the last mile; that on the railroad. Asked for a 
timetable in the station at Goodland, and the young man said 
they were out: 

“It’s people like you that come and get them.” 

Sitting in the door of the depot was one of the post office 
clerks from Norton. I didn’t remember him; he had to tell me 
who he was. 

A travelling man who was at the depot (something to do 
with “locks on safes,” he said) walked up town with me, to show 
me where I could get good coffee. He went into the lunch room 
with me and told the proprietor what I was doing. The pro¬ 
prietor was an ex-railroad' man, recently-ex. He told of two 
girls that started to walk from Chicago to San Francisco, and 
got caught in snowstorms; a freight train stopped and took them 
aboard out of the snow, “or they would have frozen to death.” 
The girls told him they slept wherever they happened to be 
when night came—at fence corners, anywhere. These sus¬ 
picious Middle-West people are very believing sometimes. 

In Goodland, met also the Indiana man I met several days 

ago. 

Arrived at Goodland at 11:30 a.m.; left at 12:30 p.m., 
going west on the wagon road (“dirt road” is now once more 
“wagon road”). After a mile or two, got into the country 
of unfenced fields. Bunches of cattle were wandering round— 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


185 


bunches of fifty or a hundred—and one lot was across the road. 
I turned down across a field to the railroad, which I followed 
to Ruleton ( a station, store, and a few houses), 10 miles by 
railroad from Goodland, passing Carusa (a siding, with one 
house quarter of a mile away). Shall remember Ruleton, whieh 
I passed by at 4:30 p.m., for there a locust flopped against my 
eye, and it is still hurting badly. 

East of Carusa, I saw a man and three little boys on the 
railroad coming toward me, and down in the field at the side a 
woman carrying a child. On getting closer, I saw she had gone 
down to avoid a trestle over a dry gully. It was very high, but 
short. Just as I stepped out on it, a strong wind came back of 
me, pushing me hard. I stopped, and then couldn’t walk it. 
The man, who had passed me, came back, telling me if I looked 
ahead instead of down or at the side I could walk it. He said 
I couldn’t fall through, the ties were too close together. Told 
him I knew it. 

“I’d never think you knew it,” he retorted. 

Nevertheless, he offered to “help” me over—said not to try 
to get down the bank, it was too high and steep there. I 
took his hand and walked over. It certainly was high—even he 
commented on the height of it. He was a foreigner—'Swede 
or Dane. 

In crossing the trestles that I did some days ago, I found 
it was not the water underneath that upset me; nor was it look¬ 
ing down. It was when I looked ahead that I got feeling queer 
and my knees got weak and wobbly. Sometimes I find a safety- 
valve in counting the ties. Three high trestles one day that I 
counted' in succession had 130, 132 and 87 ties. To-day, I blame 
it on the way the strong wind pushed me, which made me ner¬ 
vous. 

Took the wagon road for the 9 miles from Ruleton to Kan- 
orado. At first it was level, then several hilly miles, and the 
last two level again. Got here to Kanorado—the town on the 
border line of Kansas and Colorado—at 7:15 p.m. 

About 30 miles to-day (it is 27 by railroad from Edson).’ 
Decidedly cool north wind this morning, but got quite hot later, 
especially warm about 4 o’clock. 

At Edson, they said the nights in Western Kansas are 
always chilly. Farther East, they said the nights were us¬ 
ually dreadfully hot in Kansas—that this summer was an ex¬ 
ception. 

Where I am staying, all the rooms were full, but they put me 
in a store-room off the office, in which is a little bit of every- 


1&6 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


thing, including a pair of big farm shoes, extra comforters 
(anyway I won’t be cold), an old stove, a kitchen table, and a 
man’s coat and hat—hope he won’t be wanting them between 
now and morning, or they will wake me up to get them for him* 

I expect I wont get much sleep to-night. They have just 
ended a concert in the office, one of the instruments being a 
drum. Now they are talking of going to church, and probably 
will celebrate some more after church. My room opens off the 
“office,” and its one big window opens on the front platform of 
the hotel. 

A woman to-day, again, was asking me all kinds of personal 
questions. Why don’t they confine their interest to my walk,, 
instead of wanting to know my personal affairs! 

If the shoe shop man at Norton could see now the heels he 
was so proud of when he put them on my shoes! The hard 
walking on the railroads have ground the heels off so it is im¬ 
possible to tell there ever were heels on the shoes. 

At one hotel in Kansas, when I asked the daughter of the 
house for a bowl and pitcher of water, she said there wasn’t one 
in the room,—a self-evident fact,—but that I could use the wash¬ 
room in the office. The “washroom” was an open cupboard 
space in the corner of the office. I refused to, so she brought 
the bowl and pitcher. At that same hotel I said the sheets had 
been slept in. 

“Yes; but they’ve been slept in only once, I think.” 

I said I had to have clean ones. She said they were crowd¬ 
ed, and “had to use the sheets over.” 

Me: “The State Board of Health doesn’t allow a hotel 
to do that.” 

She: “I know it, but we can’t help it.” 

But she went out and came back with clean sheets and 
pillow slip. I asked her if they were the ones that had been 
used and pressed out. She (evidently acquainted with that 
process) said no, that they were really fresh ones. But she 
added: 

“She says if you have clean sheets, you must pay in advance 
for your supper and bed to-night.” I did so. Supposing they 
had told me to take my little bag and myself out of their hotel,, 
what would I have done (the next town was 12 miles away)? 
But they didn’t. 



TYPICAL ARKANSAS FARM 
“Corn and hay lands, pastures, wooded creek and limestone 

hills” 



INDEPENDENCE, COLORADO 
“To the side of the mountain, half a mile below Altman, 
clings Independence” 














TO SAN FRANCISCO 


187 


KANORADO, KANSAS, TO BURLINGTON, COLORADO 

Monday , August 30. 

Got breakfast at a restaurant at Kanorado, and found it 
was a hotel also. Fairly good, and muffins! The woman said 
she was a Southerner. Then went to Post Office (which is in 
Kansas); the Postmaster signed at 7:50 a.m. Yesterday being 
Sunday, didn’t get any signature. 

Cool this morning, with southwest wind. Started on the 
wagon road for Burlington. Just west of Kanorado is a square 
arch (can an arch be square!) over the road, saying Colorado- 
Kansas Line. It also has distances on it (probably section 
miles); Denver 182 m., Kansas City 492 m., Colorado Springs 
178 m., Omaha 405. At the sides were boards, one reading 
“Lincoln Highway”; another, “Golden Belt Road”. 

Straight west for over a mile, where there was a sign 
“Denver 184 miles.” For a moment, I thought what a short 
two miles it had been from the Colorado line; then it occured 
to me I must have been walking backwards, for I was still facing 
west and was, according to this sign-board, two miles farther 
from Denver than when at the State line sign-boards. How¬ 
ever, as I’m not going to Denver anyway, it doesn’t matter. 

Not long after crossing the Colorado line, there are many 
little mounds of earth,—just like prairie-dog burrows, I said 
to myself, but thought they couldn’t be. Then I heard some 
yappy squeeks. There sat a little prairie-dog, and I’m quite 
sure he was making remarks about that funny-looking creature 
that was going along the road. Another chap, who had his 
burrow out by the roadside, let me get within eight or ten feet 
of him before he whisked round and scurried down the hole. He 
didn’t turn a somersault and go down, as I’ve read they do and 
as they seem to do when seen from the train. He whisked 
round quick, like a squirrel does. 

The road was very level. After a few miles of nodcTing sun¬ 
flowers and grain fields, the inevitable unfenced cattle ranges 
and equally inevitable herds of cattle appeared. The first bunch 
I almost walked past—one side of the road had a two-strand 
wire fence, that made me brave. When nearly past them, a 
mule came over to my side of the road, and not wishing closer 
acquaintance, I got under the fence and went past them in the 
field. Ten minutes later, another bunch (I had been watching 
them saunter across the road ahead) were strung along both 
sides of the road; and again I got on the field side of the fence. 
Besides the half-grown bulls that are with all the herds through 


188 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


here, this bunch had one old white-faced wrinkled-faced fellow 
that came over and watched me. I pretended not to see him 
and his old cows, but that wire fence looked good between us. 
When one cow, that hadn’t seen me coming, gave a big jump as 
I passed her, he hurried along and got between me and her— 
and that wire fence looked still better. 

The people here never walk the roads outside of the towns. 
They either ride, or drive, or have autos. For several days I 
haven’t seen a person on foot on the wagon roads: when they 
do walk, they take the railroad. 

I may be foolish about the cattle; but when there isn’t a 
fence or tree in sight (seldom is there a house) and a bunch of 
cattle are near the road, I do what I did about ten o’clock this 
morning—go looking for a railroad. I crossed a field, got 
through a wire fence, crossed a cornfield, and got out on the 
railroad track. The railroad is always well fenced—so far, at 
least. If people walked these roads, it would be different. But 
a person on foot is a curiosity to the cattle. 

The real cattle men (not ranchers) say if range cattle see a 
moving speck, they will start toward it from curiosity; the whole 
bunch, whether a hundred or a thousand, start after the one who 
has first spied the moving speck; then they get trotting,and 
then running; and when they get up to the man or animal, they 
can’t stop running, on account of the pushing of the cattle be¬ 
hind, and so trample anyone on foot into the earth. It sounds 
plausible —and unpleasant! 

The farmer who directed me just before I got to the open- 
door schoolhouse was chased this way on the ranges, before he 
knew enough, when on foot, to keep close to his horse. The cow¬ 
boys saw and knew they couldn’t turn the cattle, so rode for 
him, and the head one got to him not far ahead of the cattle. 

The people in the last few towns have been much excited 
over a boy who was killed by his father’s bull—an animal sup¬ 
posed to be of the gentlest. I do object t6 the way those bulls 
wander around the unfenced roads; and they all seem to have 
horns, though most of the cows are hornless. 

No trestles on the railroad to-day, after I crossed to it. 
Came back again to the wagon road, and into Burlington, and 
here I am. 

Mailed D. B’s. The Postmaster signed at 1 p.m. Mountain 
Time. He is a tall, gray-bearded man, and I got the impression 
from his manner, that he disapproved of a woman person who 
would walk across the country. (Why it is only men are sup¬ 
posed to have the privilege of wanting to see the country at 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


189 


close range?) When I went back later to buy a few things, he 
deigned a wintry smile,—perhaps because I bought cold cream, 
and he may have thought that, after all, a woman’s a woman for 
a’ that, even if she tramps the roads. 

By the time I had eaten dinner, it was after 2 o’clock, and 
my shoes still to be heeled and one mended, and the shoeman was 
too busy to fix them right away. The next town being 19 
miles west, I decided to stay here. The hotel here has hot 
water! Joy! 

When my shoes have heels my muscles will feel better, I 
think. I have been rather abusing them, walking practically 
without heels on my shoes, and my own heels have been 
resenting it. Not more than 15 miles in all to-day. Hadn’t 
expected another short day so soon. 

BURLINGTON TO VONA, COLORADO 

Tuesday , August 31. 

The woman that runs the hotel where I stayed in Burling¬ 
ton raised my hopes by asking if I would like an early break¬ 
fast; then said 6 o’clock mountain time was as early as I could 
get it. I left a call for 5:15, and was called at 5:25 A. M. At 
6 o’clock I went down and waited round with some other people, 
but no sign of breakfast. Went back and packed my bag, and 
it is really packing . Everything has to be folded small and put 
in just so, in order to get them all in and the bag strapped. I 
could pack a big bag in a fraction of the time. 

At 6:30 breakfast was announced; then there was a long 
wait before it was served. All through the Middle West (the 
route I have come) people seem to have no idea that time mat¬ 
ters. If they say they will do a certain thing at a certain time, 
it means anywhere from 5 minutes to nearly an hour after that 
time—but never earlier. Of course this isn’t true of the cities; 
but I have come west somewhat north of the main travelled 
roads. The farmers, too, I noticed did not get to work in the 
fields till about 7 o’clock. And think of the New England farm¬ 
er, who works from daylight till dark—and often then some 
more! 

Got away at 7:15 mountain time. Took the railroad for a 
couple of miles; then the road, while it ran near the railroad. 
Passed Bathone, a few houses and a station, 9 miles from Bur¬ 
lington. After a while the wagon road went away from the 
railroad, for miles through pastures—and cattle. I took the 
railroad, leaving it a couple of times when the wagon road ran 


190 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


near it. When I crossed back to the railroad beyond Bathone, 
came to a trestle. Went down the banking, crossed a farm 
road and dry creek bed under it, and climbed up again. To 
judge by footprints, many others had done the same. 

'Soon after leaving Burlington, a big bird flew ahead of 
me, and overhead, and back of me, perching on the fence poles* 
It had a gray head, brownish-gray breast and under the 
wings. An ugly old head on him, and being light gray with dark 
wings and back, made it look uglier. The edges of his wings 
were ragged when he flew, so I suppose he was some type of 
buzzard. I have seen buzzards flying, but none before ever 
cared to get right chummy and come along with me. 

Several new kinds of wild flowers to-day; and for a few 
miles the sunflowers weren’t any larger than ox-eyed daisies. 
Late in the afternoon, the sunflowers turn their faces to the 
west—suppose they follow the heat of the sun around. 

At Stratton (21 miles from Burlington) the Postmaster (a 
woman) signed at 2:115 p.m* I asked her for a drink of water; 
she said the water was nearly out and not very cold—and didn’t 
give me any. A man sitting there behind the windows of her 
office, and it was only a little way to go for water back of the 
house! Even the “not very cold” would have tasted good, I was 
so thirsty. 

Got lunch at Stratton, and the woman in the restaurant 
said they were out of everything. But she gave me lima beans 
and cold slaw and a glass of milk and a cup of coffee, and, 
best of all, went out in the yard and drew or pumped fresh cold 
water. The restaurant was next door to the post office, and they 
got water from the same place. The woman was pleasant, and 
the lunch tasted good. 

From Stratton came on to Vona, 8 miles, mostly up and 
down little hills. But the road ran close to the railroad, and the 
railroad fence being near, I stayed on the wagon road. 

Near Vona, something that looked like a big field mouse 
crossed the road ahead of me. He ran like a rabbit—all four 
feet close together. After getting across, he sat and watched 
me for a while (I stood still) and then went into his bur¬ 
row. The first sign I have seen of prairie dogs since shortly 
after crossing the Colorado line. 

Today was cool at first; then hot, about 1-2-3 o’clock; cooler 
in the late afternoon. About 30 miles. 

Saw the first of the “snow fences”, built to protect the rail¬ 
road cuts. For a few minutes, I wondered why a fence should 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


191 


be built that way; then thought why—and also of the mountains 
ahead. 

Am at a nice little hotel in Vona. In the parlor is a 
couch, and on the couch I am to sleep. Everything seems nice 
and clean, and I had a good supper. I hardly dare to hope that 
I have got into a country of attractive small hotels. 

The little daughter of the house (aged six) has been sitting 
here asking me questions. Her last one was: 

“Are you married?” 

Finally, her mother called her out. 

I believe I hear one of those pumps that work while you 
can’t sleep, like they have in Yellowstone Park. 

VONA TO ARRIBA, COLORADO 

Wednesday, September 1. 

(It was a windmill I heard last night, not an hydraulic 
pump.) 

Left Vona at 7:30 a.m. by wagon road. Lots of sunflowers 
along the road, but small, two or three feet high, and small 
blossoms, lots no larger than white daisies. One whole field 
was covered with these sunflowers, just as Eastern fields are 
sometimes covered with white daisies, and California fields with 
poppies. Then there is a yellow flower, some kind of daisy I 
suppose, the same shade of yellow as the sunflowers. 

On one road to-day, as I was trudging along, a man came to 
his gate, and of course we spoke, and then chatted for half an 
hour. He wanted a cook, and wanted to know if I was looking 
for a place. I promised to think about it, but said I would be 
sorry for him if he had to eat my cooking. His reply was: 

“One can learn to cook, you know.” 

He was “baching” just then with his son. Had correspond¬ 
ed with a woman in Chicago, and she and her daughter came 
out, and she stayed and cooked for a while. But she wasn’t like 
he thought from her letters she would be, and he thought he 
wasn’t what she had expected. 

He told of people walking through the country for various 
reasons. Once a woman came by, walking the railroad with two 
suit cases and a boy of ten years, on her way from Denver to 
Ohio, where her grandmother lived. She had taken the wrong 
railroad out of Denver, and walked to Colorado Springs instead 
of to Limon. The tragedy of that! No one who has not walked 
long distances could realize it. 

People with a prairie schooner and horses had stopped at 


192 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


his house yesterday afternoon (they must have gone by while I 
was in Stratton). He didn’t like their appearance, so didn’t 
take them in, but advised them to camp there, as it was four 
miles farther to the next water; but they went on. This after¬ 
noon I passed the wagon (two horses), a saddle horse, two men, 
a boy about 12, a woman, and three small children. They had 
stopped just across a bridge (first I’ve seen for some time) on 
the wagon road and were sitting in the shade of the only tree 
that I’ve seen in Colorado so far that cast any shade on the 
side of the road. 

At Seibert, 8 miles from Vona, I got cherry cider, sarsapar¬ 
illa, and bananas. Left there at 10:15 a.m. Took the wrong 
road coming out, so that after a few miles I had to go a mile 
south. Then the railroad for over a mile, and then back to the 
Lincoln Highway again. Near where I crossed were two men 
and four horses and open carts. Undoubtedly part of the outfit 
that stopped at the man’s house yesterday, for he had spoken 
of seeing three men. Probably the two parties happened to be 
together at that time. 

Stopped at Flagler (12 miles from Seibert) at the post of¬ 
fice; the clerk signed at 2:53 p.m. Had lunch there; it might 
have been worse. Left Flagler at 3:15. Went a little north, 
west a short distance, north Vz mile, and then west for miles. 
Considerable up and down hill. 

For one long stretch of perhaps 2 miles or more, unfenced 
pastures on both sides, and a few cattle in sight. I hustled over 
the road (the railroad was about a mile and a half away), and 
was glad when, out of breath, I got to where there was a wire 
fence on one side of the road again. A road will look fenced as 
far ahead as I can see, and then all of a sudden the fencing will 
end and I will be out in the open pastures—ranges, I should say. 

At another place, a bunch of cattle walked out on the road 
just ahead of me; but there was a fence on one side, and I put 
it between me and the cattle—let them have the wagon road. 
After getting well past, I crawled through to the road again. 

I hurried all the way from Flagler, to reach Arriba before 
dark. My feet got burning, so stopped at a place where there 

was water at the side of the road,—muddy water, to be sure,_ 

to wet them. Sat down without remembering my skirt, and got 
it all muddy. 

In two places to-day, where the mud is evidently pretty bad 
at times, the road was filled in with a concrete bottom for a few 
yards. A good plan; no matter how deep the mud gets across 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


193 


the road, the concrete bottom is always there, and teams and 
autos (and I) can sink only down to the concrete. 

Also saw remains of sod houses. For several days, most of 
the houses have been one-storey. 

To-day, lots of the “snow-fences,” some where the railroad 
runs through open fields. They make me realize winter is com¬ 
ing sometime—may I get through the mountains and deserts 
first! 

Grayish birds are still around the roads—a kind that I have 
been seeing ever since Maryland. 

South breeze has blown all day. Through the middle of the 
day, the sun was very hot, and hot for a longer time than it 
was yesterday. This afternoon, about sunset, was just right for 
walking—cool, and a soft wind from the south. 

To-night am at Arriba; about 35 miles to-day, they tell me, 
though much less by railroad. Before getting here, the road 
turns south for a mile; then west for nearly IV 2 miles into town. 
For the last few miles before the south turn, the mosquitoes 
rose from the roadway in swarms. There were as many as in 
Yellowstone Park in July, only the Colorado kind are much 
smaller. 

In a dining-room to-day, the woman in charge passed a 
glass with paper napkins in it, with: 

“Do you care for a napkin?” 

I took it for a joke, but soon saw it wasn’t one. She asked 
the man next me at the table the same thing when she passed 
the glass to him. And I saw some of the guests didn’t “care for” 
them. 

Some one had been resting on the bed and the pillow was 
mussed, but I put it on the chair. Was too sleepy to go down 
for clean pillowslip. 

I got to Arriba just at dark. I didn’t realize how quickly 
the light disappears now after sunset, until, in the last mile, I 
looked back toward the east and saw how dim the expanse of 
pastures was. For a little time after sunset, all round the rest 
of the horizon was a dull hazy purplish, with pinkish above. 

Saw the sign “Limon” for the first time to-day: an old, very 
large sign, with a hand pointing. Also passed a sign “Kipling.” 

Anyway, I have gained two days: had long ago planned to 
reach Colorado, September 1, and am two sun’s travel into the 
state. 

This part of Colorado seems to be all rolling prairie, dry 
pasture, mostly,—“Buffalo grass.” 


194 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

ARRIBA TO LIMON, COLORADO 

Thursday , September 2. 

Left Arriba this morning at 7:30. Started out by wagon 
road, and then crossed down about Yt mile to the railroad. At 
Bovina, Adams Express has a nice little office; the man in it 
said Bovina was 6 Y 2 miles from Arriba, Genoa 6 Y 2 from Bov¬ 
ina, and Limon 12 from Genoa. 

Had dinner at Genoa. When I went into the dining room, 
the “table-girl” directed me which table to sit at. It was one 
of the 35-cent tables,—that’s what I get for being a tramp. I 
recognized the 50-cent table, because it had plums and oranges 
on it. 

Went half a mile north from Genoa to get to the Lincoln 
Highway. In a field at the corner, were some cattle, a wire 
fence between field and road. I walked along, telling myself 
that if no fence were there the cattle would keep on feeding 
quietly just the same and never notice me, that I was too foolish 
about unfenced roads. Am trying to get my courage up for the 
time when I may be compelled to cross cattle ranges. Five min¬ 
utes later (I wouldn't let myself watch the cattle as I passed) 
I looked back. The whole bunch, and a lot more that had been 
out of sight down in a hollow, were stringing along inside the 
fence, following me,—wanted to look at the creature that was 
going along the highway and was neither team, automobile, nor 
a man on horseback. 

In discussing the roads, a young man at the table this noon 
said: 

“We fence our grain and let the cattle run unfenced.” 

I should prefer fenced cattle and unfenced grain. 

When I got to where the fences ended, and saw bunches of 
cattle on the open ranges, I turned down to the railroad, though 
it had curved a long way away from the roadway. Kept the 
railroad till about a half a mile from Limon. 

It was worth the added walk down to the railroad at the 
point where I crossed to it, to get the view. The railroad was 
high there, and to the south and southwest and southeast I 
could see for miles and miles across the apparently level coun¬ 
try, till at the horizon there seemed to be low mountains. It 
was like looking at part of an immense plate, with the raised 
edge of the plate joining the sky line. Everything was hazy, 
which increased the apparent immense distance one could 
see. 

Heard a man describe this as “a regular Colorado day.” The 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


195 


sunshine was bright all day; rather too warm for walking until 
late this afternoon. There was quite a breeze from the south. 
White sprays and streamers of clouds were scattered over the 
sky. 

Stock is still the principal product out here, though the 
farmers are raising more or less grain. New grain elevators 
are being built at stations where there have been none, and 
sometimes where there is already one. 

The Limon Postmaster, after objecting, finally signed my 
slip at 5:20 p.m. 

Went up to the town tailor, to have the hem of my skirt 
fixed and the mud stains taken out of it. The tailor's wife (or 
sister) was very chatty, while he was fixing my skirt. 

At Flagler, I did a little shopping; and also some at an¬ 
other little town, a couple of days ago. Had plain soda at the 
drug store here in Limon. 

About 25 miles to-d)ay. Had nose-bleed, and was chuckling 
to myself that I would blame it on the “elevation.” I have so 
often been amused at people, crossing mountains in a train, who, 
after inquiring about the elevation and finding it was consider¬ 
able, immediately began to say how badly the altitude affected 
them. I didn’t realize that I was walking at much of an alti¬ 
tude; but find that Arriba has an altitude of 5239 feet, Bovina 
5371, and Limon 5360. Belleville was only 1512 feet, and I have 
been steadily getting higher ever since. To-day have been travel¬ 
ling along higher than Denver, which has an elevation of only 
5183 feet. So “mocking was catching” this time—it was the 
elevation. 

At one place where I stayed recently, as I have learned to 
do I looked first at the bed; was not fresh linen. Went down 
and asked for it. So they came up and put clean linen on: real¬ 
ly “they,” for three women came in. Some one had told them 
I was walking to San Francisco, they said—again “they,” for 
all three women said it at the same time. They explained that 
they meant to give “transients” clean linen; that linen off the 
transients’ beds was put on the beds of the working men “on 
the other side.” 

“We couldn’t give them clean sheets, because their work is 
so dirty.” 

It’s a great, wide, beautiful, wonderful world, as my school 
reader used to say,—but it neglected to note that the people in 
it are still more wonderful. 

I had to ask for a washbowl and pitcher of water; even 
transients don’t have that luxury—without asking for it. Two 


196 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

doors down the hall is a sink, where they tell me, “You can 
empty your wash water!” 

* * Those represent two little hug things I killed that 

same night. Their surprise at being interfered with kept them 
from trying to escape. Didn’t see any more, and put out the 
light quick for fear I find another and decide to sit up all night. 

Warnings now, not only that I will perish in the Rockies, 
but that the Western Colorado and Eastern Utah deserts are 
not to be crossed on foot; and that prairie wolves and coyotes 
abound there. 

" ' LIMON TO RAMAH, COLORADO 

Friday, September 3. 

Tried to get weighed at the Limon Post Office this morn¬ 
ing; after a 15-minute wait, learned their scales weighed only 
up to 100 pounds. I’m not that light yet. 

At Limon, crossed the first typically Western stream—a 
wide extent of sand, with a mere suggestion of dampness in the 
middle. Later, crossed several others, some of which had water 
showing, either in a narrow, interrupted stream, or in patches 
of wet. 

Left Limon about 7:30 a.m. Was told not to take the 
Lincoln Highway, which ran six miles south before turning west 
to Matheson, but to go down the Rock Island track a mile and 
then take a road south of the railroad. I did so. But shortly 
the road started across the cattle ranges unfenced, and I took a 
much less-traveled road that kept near the railroad. Of course 
it was longer, running slightly northwest to Resolis, and then 
turning southwest to Matheson. However, the longer way suited 
me, since it gave me a fence on one side, not too far away to get 
to in case cattle loomed up in the distance. Met no one, but saw 
a man driving two mules with a wagon full of railroad ties, on 
the railroad side of the fence. 

At Resolis (11 a.m.), 9 miles from Limon, I got a drink 
at the station pump. The station is a two-storey building oc¬ 
cupied by Mexicans, out of an upper window of which a girl 
watched me and asked if I wanted a train. The sign “Waiting 
Room” was reversed, pointing across the track away from the 
station. The lower windows of the station were boarded up; and 
I didn’t like the atmosphere of the place; how much of this was 
due to the dreariness of the place and how much to warnings 
I had received to keep away from the Resolis station, I can’t 
tell. A little farther on, rested half an hour. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


197 


The wagon road I had been following, crossed the railroad 
at Resolis and ran over to a farm. So I took the railroad there. 
It wasn’t such bad walking as it has been in other places, and 
the trains seemingly kill less animals and snakes. Saw only 
three dead rabbits and three dead snakes to-day. In Kansas, it 
was very unpleasant on the railroad. 

After passing Resolis, a line of hills on the right (north¬ 
west) seemed higher than most I have seen, and gradually got 
nearer. I didn’t seem to be going toward these mountains, but 
they coming toward me. This range is the “Arkansas Divide.” 
I suppose the streams on the south flow into the Arkansas River, 
and on the north into some other river. 

Between Resolis and Matheson many fields are green. 
Couldn’t find out whether it was alfalfa or sweet clover, so shall 
call it alfalfa. Certainly a pleasing change from the miles and 
miles of yellowish-greenish-brown cattle ranges. In some places 
the alfalfa now growing is the third crop for the fields, they 
having already taken off two crops. Matheson man is my inform¬ 
ant, but even I could see it is so. Apparently they cut the al¬ 
falfa and haul it in green; for in some places teams were loading 
it—still green. 

Kept the railroad track from Resolis to Matheson (10 
miles), except for a very short piece of wheel-tracks, running 
parallel. The grassy lumps proved too much work, in addition 
to watching out for snakes, so I went back to the railroad. 

Less than a mile east of Matheson was a long iron bridge, 
near which men were working on the roadbed. I asked the 
“boss” (in this case an elderly Irishman) if any trains were due 
soon. Both trains from the East were “past due,”—“but you 
can see the smoke.” There was a curve not far east of the 
trestle—there always is a curve near a trestle. Just before go¬ 
ing on to the trestle, I looked back; no smoke. I faced the 
bridge again—and the train whistled at the men. These “past 
due” trains come with a rush. When the train got by, I walked 
over the trestle. It was low, across one of the rivers—sand, no 
water after a dry summer. The ties were close, and I took two 
at a step! First time I have ever been able to do that, I am so 
shakey. It was the longest trestle I have ever crossed alone 
(though the Illinois River trestle was of course much longer and 
very much higher). Hurrying, and taking two ties at a step (I 
could hurry, because the trestle was low), it took me just two 
minutes to cross it. 

At Matheson (half a dozen houses, a number of stores, and 
a hotel), postmaster signed at 3 p.m. Had dinner there, and 


198 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


at 3:30 took the wagon road to Ramah. As far as Simla (a wee 
town on top of a little hill), the road was fine. Not so good 
most of the way afterward. 

While on the road to-day, half a mile or more past 
Resolis, I saw a man ahead who seemed to be crossing to the 
railroad from the road. Getting closer, saw he had crouched 
down by some water—whitish, thick-looking water—and was 
busied rinsing out a bottle. Just as I got opposite, he filled the 
bottle and drank that water. I said “Howd‘y,” and, thinking he 
was a tramp, or tramper, told him there was good water at the 
pump a little way up the railroad at Resolis. He was a Mexican, 
or something of that kind, and looked dreadfully sick. After 
passing him, I saw a flock of sheep a little farther along; pro- 
ably he was the sheep-herder. 

The little pools of water at the sides of the railroad are 
whitish. Close to one was a tree, and the shadow of the tree lay 
on the water, instead of the reflection in the water,—the water 
was so thick and white. 

Passed Simla at 5:27; reached the “Station 1 mile” sign 
east of Ramah (could see it from the wagon road) at 6:20—4 
miles in 53 minutes. Got here to Ramah at 6:38. Matheson to 
Ramah, 12 wagon road miles. So at least I have done 31 wagon 
road miles to-day. Find the railroad timetables do not agree on 
the railroad mileage—printed at different times, I suppose, and 
subject to type errors. 

It was warm this morning. By 9 o’clock the sun was hot. 
South breeze all day, luckily. A little after 4, the sun went be¬ 
hind a cloud and stayed there till it set—about the time I got 
here, a little earlier, perhaps. The clouds were beautiful to-day 
—wooly-woofy white ones; and very near-seeming. They prob¬ 
ably were, as I have been travelling high up. Coming into 
Ramah, the mountains seemed near for the first time. 

At this nice little hotel, the rooms were all full, but they 
have made up a couch in the office for me. The “table-girls” 
here are nice pleasant American girls, who loaned me their room 
for the evening until the office shall be ready for me. I’m hor¬ 
ribly wide awake, and its 10 o’clock. Is that, too, the effect of 
the altitude? 

At last I realize I am in the West. But it is not the alfalfa 
fields, nor the wide rivers of sand, nor the prairie dogs. I know 
it by having seen a horned toad this morning; the prettiest one 
—in fact, the only pretty one—f ever saw. Instead of the sandy 
brown of the California and Arizona varieties I have seen, he 
was gray and black—clear colors. Just a little beauty. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


199 


Saw several new birds today. A brown and gray one had 
a very short tail; the bird was as long as our Eastern quail, 
and much slimmer. Another ressembled our robin in size and 
coloring and sauciness, but hadi a topknot. Another one, brown, 
had a yellow breast. Heard a hawk’s cry for the first time in my 
life. He sat on a post, and cried “cheeeeeeeeep!” over and over 
again. Every cry was a long-drawn-out exclamation. Think it 
was the same kind of a bird a man told me the other day was a 
chicken-hawk. These birds aren’t a bit afraid; will fly from 
post to post ahead of me, or swoop around in circles quite near 
and hardly above my head. But of course people don’t wander 
round here on foot, so they don’t know what I am. 

Many prairie dogs. They, also, do not seem afraid. To-day 
several of them at once sat up and yepped at me. Usually they 
don’t yep till they are on their little mounds by their burrows. 
But to-day one of them sat on the grass half a dozen feet away 
from any burrow, and said, “Yip! yip!”; while another sat on a 
nearyby burrow and said “Yeep! yeep! Then Mrs. Yip went 
over to Mrs. Yeep, and how they did jabber. Mrs. Yip evidently 
suggested that my standing still was suspicious— 

“Yip, yip, yip!”—“Let’s go in!”—she said, and started to 
go into the burrow. But Mrs. Yeep objected: 

“Yeep, yeep, yeep!”—“Wait a while!” (They accent the 
last word of their phrases,) 

So Mrs. Yip backed out again; and they went on discussing 
me as I walked by not ten feet from them. They are larger 
than they look to be from a little way off. Their forequarters 
and heads are small, but the rest of their bodies are large in 
proportion. Their ears are very short—so short that they don’t 
seem to have any, looked at from a short distance away. Their 
legs are very short, and paws small. And the ones that have 
dodged away from me into their homes have not turned somer¬ 
saults into their burrows; they whisk around quick, and scurry 
down. 

RAMAH TO FALCON, COLORADO 

Saturday, September U. 

Slept very little last night. Before 11 o’clock, some one 
came for a room, and of course naturally rapped on the office 
door (where I was sleeping). Then some one came for a doctor. 
Later, the doctor returned. Then another wayfarer wanted a 
room. And the wind blew and rattled the curtains; and a door 
nearby banged and kept banging with the wind; and a dog 


200 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

(suppose it was) rubbed round on the porch by my window; and 
I felt scardish. And I closed that window and fastened it; and 
noises crept round the other window,—and oh, dear! 

When I started from Ramah at 7:30 this morning, I couldn’t 
see any mountains, and began to wonder if I had dreamed the 
mountains last night on the way to Ramah. But as soon as I 
got beyond the houses, Pike’s Peak range was in front of me 
with Pike’s Peak very clear; though they looked a long way off. 

To Calhan by wagon road (over 10 miles), getting there at 
10:15. A little hilly nearing Calhan. One shoe sole had worn 
through in one little spot, so stopped for half-soles and a patch. 
It was a hand-work shoe shop (also a harness shop), and I sat 
there the hour and a half it took to fix the shoes. Got lunch of 
puffed rice and milk and a glass of milk. 

The Calhan postmaster signed at noon: “Miss Minnie Hill 
arrives 12 M. Sept. 4, on way to West.” So few have taken the 
trouble to write anything but the mere time and date that the 
little extra trouble some take is worth noting. 

The Postmaster said to take the wagon road to Peyton; that 
it went “straight up over the hills,” while the railroad curved to 
the north; said the wagon road was fenced all the way. The mat¬ 
ter of fenced or unfenced road is now one of the big issues, on 
account of cattle ranges; and it is nice when a man is under¬ 
standing in this. 

Left Calhan for Peyton at 12:15,—11 miles by railroad, 
though I took the wagon road,—getting there at 3:40 p.m. Be¬ 
tween the two towns surely is “over the hills,”—and “straight 
over,” too. Had meant to eat at Peyton, but was told there was 
no restaurant or hotel, only a boarding house. Rested at the 
station. The agent there was pleased that I was not travelling 
along in fear of men; said the women he knew were afraid to 
walk anywhere, for fear of meeting men. It seems to me men 
are only just men, whether millionaires or tramps; if the high¬ 
wayman class don’t suspect that one might have money, they 
will be as kind as any other class. The women shake their heads 
when I tell them this. I have found all men far kinder on this 
trip than the average woman. Whatever men may think, they 
don’t show it, but act as if they believed me.—with a few ex¬ 
ceptions. The women—with a few exceptions—seem to believe 
I am guilty till I shall have proved I’m innocent—and lacking 
the proof, they keep on being suspicious. 

Left Peyton at 4:10 and came on the last lap to Falcon by 
road. The wagon road runs all the way near the railroad, and 
on a slight up grade. Got here at 6:40 p.m. Altitude of Cal- 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


201 


han is 6508 feet; Falcon, 6803 feet. To Peyton seems to be 
more down hill than up; and then a gradual upgrade to within 
a couple of miles of Falcon; then level, ending in a little up-hill 
coming into Falcon. The railroad mileage from Ramah to here 
is 30 miles; and I think the up and down hills and twists in the 
wagon road must have made about 34 miles. 

A team coming out of a field on to the road in one place had 
two dogs with it, that ran toward me barking. 

“Come back here, you varmint!” called the older man. The 
“varmint” didn’t want to go back a bit, but did, grudgingly. The 
other dog, “Jack,” the men said wouldn’t bite. 

It surely was discouraging as I came in sight of Falcon, 
where I had been assured there was a small hotel. Just getting 
dusk (when dusk comes now, it is dark almost immediately) : 
an apparently limitless extent of flat country; a few houses, not 
very close to the railroad. Some one playing an accordian in 
one house. Asked at the first house for the hotel. It was a lit¬ 
tle way down the road: all dark, and a big dog—a great big dog 
—on the porch, which was on a level with the road. (My after¬ 
noon’s experience had made me nervous about dogs.) The hotel 
woman said she had stopped keeping a hotel; after much plead¬ 
ing on my part, she agreed to let me have a room, but resolute¬ 
ly refused to let me have supper or breakfast. Said there was 
a store, and I could buy something to eat there. In her dining 
room a man was eating at a table,—a table full of food,—and I 
took chances and said she was giving that man his supper. 

“Yes, I am; but I’ve told him he can’t have meals after 
to-morrow.” 

I suggested just bread and milk would satisfy me; but she 
said she had decided not to give anyone board, and wasn’t go¬ 
ing to change her mind,—was going “to stick to it.” Finally 
said I could have some hot coffee in the morning,—“but nothing 
else.” 

I went over to the store, which was also Post Office, and 
got the Postmaster's signature: 

“A lady who has papers to identify her as Miss 

Minnie Hill arrived here at 7 p.m. today. 

He said his wife was ill and housekeeper away, or he would 
ask me to supper, but to come over in the morning and have 
breakfast with them. 

The sun has been hot to-day; though a hard shower, big 
drops', came down while I was in the Calhan shoeshop. 


202 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


Have got the top of my window down a few inches, after 
much struggling; the bottom sash won’t raise at all. 

I suppose there is a limit to the weight I can lose for 
lack of appetizing food. But won’t I make a beastie of myself 
when I get where I can have all I want of the kind I like. 

FALCON TO COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO 

Sunday , September 5. 

Had a bad sick headache in the night, and it was still aching 
at 7 o’clock this morning, when I asked for my coffee, and got 
it. Ache was the result of a cold supper, I think. 

Left Falcon at 8:45 a.m. Came only as far as Colorado 
Springs, 19 miles by railroad, though I came by the wagonroad, 
a mile or two longer. Got here at 2:15 p.m.; later, went to the 
Post Office, where the Postmaster signed at 5 p.m. Colorado 
Springs has an altitude of 5985 feet—I’ve got the elevation 
craze, like people I have made fun of who have come here to 
live. Mountains either ahead of me or to the right most of 
the time—depending on the turns in the road. Some long hills. 
At the top of the longest, a few miles before Colorado Springs, 
an auto club sign “HILL” had a few strokes added to the I 
making it E. Man that did it must have been walking and ap¬ 
preciated the hill. 

No snow on this side of Pike’s Peak, or on any of the range 
in sight to-day. When the sun shines on the mountains, they 
are brown to the tops, excepting the speck representing the 
halfway house up Pike’s Peak. Having been to the top of 
that Peak several years ago, I shall not climb it this time. 

About five miles this side of Falcon, on the left of the road 
was a grove of most attractive pines. I went through the wire 
fence, and sat under the trees; but there were too many little 
black ants. Just as I got on to the road again, I heard strange 
yells and saw a man on horseback riding back and forth over 
the road ahead. Wondered if he was a cowboy gone crazy, 
and if cowboys ever do go that way. Presently I saw his 
cattle. I went through the wire fence again into a field, and 
waited for them to pass. He rode over and talked; has lived 
round there all his life, and never been up Pike’s Peak. This 
was their third day on the road mice horse and nice boy. 

Among the autos that asked me to ride to-day was one with 
a very likable elderly lady and gentleman in it; had a pleasant 
little chat. They have just come from San Francisco. One 
auto pulled up and the man in it asked me the way to Ellicott— 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


203 


and I knew. I had seen the sign about four miles back. I 
felt quite like a native, directing people to towns. 

Coming down a long hill into Colorado Springs, there were, 
on the right, a long way from the road, cattle in a field (the 
road was fenced). Soon the whole bunch started walking 
steadily toward the road down at the foot of the hill ahead of 
me. When I got to the foot of the hill, they were bunched at 
the fence looking at me, and the ones that hadn’t got there began 
to hurry. Aftnr I passed, they turned back across the range. 
That time a person on foot was certainly a curiosity. What 
should I have done if that fence hadn’t been there! And that 
is what I would be up against following the wagon road through 
unfenced cattle ranges. I’ve had one object-lesson, anyway; 
rather glad of it. 

The real cattle men have all told me that if cattle see a 
moving speck one will start toward it, all will follow, and fin¬ 
ally get running and run down anything. The ranchers who 
are not real cattle men sniff at this, and say cattle won’t bother 
you unless you get near them. Nevertheless, they tell of three 
girls walking from Chicago to San Francisco who crossed open 
cattle ranges, and one got hurt quite badly before an auto¬ 
mobile came along, and is still in the hospital. They say such 
cases are exceptions. I prefer not to be an exception. 

Colorado Springs Postmaster signed at 5 p.m., I went to 
the Y. W. C. A., where I was given this address. Lunch and 
supper at a restaurant. 

The lady here came up and asked if I would like to go to a 
Spiritualist meeting tonight—the Convention is here this week, 
and a woman from Boston spoke the other night. She described 
the Boston Medium, and I think it is a Mrs. Chapman, a medium 
that I knew in Boston about ten years ago. My landlady loaned 
me a hat and shoes, and we went. The speaker of the evening 
was a man, and not interesting. The other delegates must have 
been sightseeing. We left (as did others) before it was over. 
Rude, but at that it was 11 o’clock by the time we got home. 

Automobilists tell me that the wagon roads between here 
and Canon City run through the cattle ranges, unfenced, and 
that the cattle are ranging across the roads. After I get to 
Canon City, I do not expect to worry over cattle ranges until 
after I pass Grand Junction, at least, and probably not until 
I cross the Eastern Utah desert. But I do dread Nevada, which 
is still a cattle country; and I’m told the railroad through there 
is still unfenced. In crossing on the train, I remember a few 


204 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

times the train stopping while cattle got off the track, but am 
hoping it may be fenced by now. 

On account of the unfenced wagon roads I shall go up into 
the mountains from here, and then down to Canon City via 
mountains; spent & lot of time this afternoon trying to learn 
about the roads to Victor or Goldfield, without success. People 
warn me of the ills I will meet in the mountains,—snow, wild 
animals, and so on,— but those things don’t worry me much; 
whereas the fear of range cattle is real and with me constantly. 

A beautiful parklike place near the city of Colorado Springs 
is the million-dollar Printers’ Home, built and kept up by reg¬ 
ular contributions from all members of the Typographical 
Union of the country. Cheyenne Mountain near by, and, far¬ 
ther off. Pike’s Peak, overlook the city. 

COLORADO SPRINGS TO ROSEMONT, COLORADO 

Monday , September 6. 

Yesterday, I couldn’t find out about the roads to Victor 
or Goldfield. This morning, while a young man in a garage 
was trying to tell me (himself not knowing), a man passing 
added his information. He said he had met me in Macon, Miss¬ 
ouri, several weeks ago; that I had made good time, etc. It 
was just a month ago to-day, on August 6, that I was in Macon. 
Afterward, this man came into the restaurant where I was 
having breakfast, and said he had been asking the Cripple 
Creek automobile men about the route. They told him I would 
have to go to Divide (25 miles) one day, and down to Victor 
(25 more miles) the next day. 

My speed in traveling now is some contrast to three years 
ago, when, to catch the 6 p.m. train, we took a wild drive from 
Cripple Creek to Colorado Springs, the last 18 miles in 40 min¬ 
utes. We reached the station on the dot of 6 o’clock—and the 
train pulled in at 9 o’clock—three hours late. 

After breakfast, wandering down street, I spied a country¬ 
looking car with a Colorado license. Asked the man with it 
about the roads, and he said it was only 28 miles to Victor: 
to go past the Zoo, then past Broadmoor Casino, and “up over 
Cheyenne.” I set out for Broadmoor; there got directions, and 
later, more directions. When I would ask for a trail up the 
mountain, every one would tell me I must go up the carriage 
road, there wasn’t any trail. One man down near Broadmoor 
said I would have a hot walk, that mountains were very hot 



MANITOU AND PIKE’S PEAK 
'To Manitou the Indians brought their sick to be cured ini 
the healing springs” 











TO SAN FRANCISCO 


205 


on a warm day. I am glad to find some one besides me that 
realizes that fact. 

After several miles, the road and I began to wind up Chey¬ 
enne Mountain. I took two or three obvious cut-offs; other¬ 
wise kept to the carriage-road. From various places on the 
road the views were wonderful. Walking is the only way to 
travel mountains. At one point—rather, at numbers of points, 
—I could see over miles and miles of apparently level country; 
while seemingly right below me were the three cities; the larg¬ 
est, Colorado Springs; then little Colorado City, the old capital 
of the “Territory of Colorado”; and Manitou, where the Indians 
used to carry their sick to be cured in the healing springs, and 
by them named for the Great Spirit Manitou, whose spirit they 
believed hovered there, coming down from the high mountains. 
Even at the first turn from which I could see Colorado Springs, 
it looked a long way off; though it couldn’t have been more than 
four or five miles by road, and much less in an air-line. This 
must have been due to some peculiarity in the atmosphere, ex¬ 
actly the opposite of the effect that so many speak of in Col¬ 
orado, when mountains many miles away look near at hand. I 
have never been fortunate enough to see that near-at-hand 
effect one hears so much of, in my other trips in Colorado or 
in this one so far, to any greater extent that I have seen it in the 
White Mountains of New Hampshire, in the Sierras or in the 
far Western Mountains. 

On, up, getting many fine views, sometimes over a great 
extent of country, and sometimes of the more or less wooded 
canyons of the mountains. Sharp pinnacles of reddish-brown 
rock stood out here and there; peaks of solid rocks reached sky¬ 
ward; masses of rocks piled high seemed ready to fall the thou¬ 
sands of feet into the canyons below. 

Heretofore, I have never done the Rocky Mountains justice. 
One has to get real intimate with them, so to speak, in order 
to appreciate them. I feel their vastness and greatness, but, 
somehow, not their aloofness. It is more as if I were a tiny 
blade of grass in a crevice, or a pebble,— part of the mountain 
in an infinitesimal way. 

The wagon road winds round and round the edges of the 
mountains, often clinging to the side, just wide enough for a 
team—not more than a foot of space outside the wheel tracks. 
In few places could teams by any maneuvering pass each 
other. I am glad I am wandering through these mountains on 
my own two feet rather than in a car or team. 

Met two men on horseback (one had an unusually fine-look- 


206 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


ing horse). They said they “had a ranch back there,” nodding 
up the mountain road. One of them said it was 36 miles to 
Victor by that road, and the same distance to Cripple Creek; 
but that I could cut off some miles by turning off to a trail at an 
old chimney. 

After they went on, I met a number of men on foot coming 
down, two or three together, or one at a time, with blankets 
slung on their backs, and bundles. The road turned and curved 
so that but two or three were in sight at once. Some were very 
dark, Mexicans I thought. Then came one, alone, that, in ad¬ 
dition to the strap over his shoulders, had a strap round his 
forehead. When I said “Howdy”, to him, I saw he was a real 
Indian. At another place, for a little time ahead of me were 
two boys and a man, but they disappeared. 

All the time, the road wound back and forth on the sides 
of the mountains, with here and there deep canyons, well wood¬ 
ed. 

I came to an old chimney, and turned off. In a minute 
I found blankets spread on the ground, and three little boys, 
the oldest possibly seven or eight years, the youngest not more 
than two or three. They said they were “camping with Dad.” 
To my suggestion that their mother was with them, on account 
of the baby: 

“Oh, no; he often comes up with us when we camp.” 

The two older boys were catching grasshoppers for bait: 
“father is going fishing”. The baby was toddling around. 
Surely this child is learning woodcraft young—left to the care 
of his two “big” brothers high up on Cheyenne Mountain, a- 
mong the great trees. 

The eldest boy was certain that path went only to St. Peter’s 
Dome,— 

“Because we’ve been up there, and it ends there.” 

So I “guessed” I would take the road again. 

“It’s best if you’re not sure of a path, to keep the one you 
know,” commented young America. I meekly agreed. 

St. Peter’s Dome almost tempted me to climb it, but a 
warning glimmer of common sense and the coming night kept 
me on my road. 

About half a mile beyond the old chimney: a woman in a 
man’s khaki suit, with two small boys. They were camping, 
and she took me over to her husband, saying he would know 
about the trails. He said there was no trail up the mountain to 
Victor, and showed me the Government map he carried: no 
trail on the map. This man said he had had something to do 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


207 


with the building of the viaduct at Canon City. Every year the 
family camps out in the mountains; have been there all this 
summer alone, except for a short time when some friends came 
up. 

After leaving their camp, the road came up over the ridges, 
and down again, and here and there ran along the bottom of 
the canyons. At times, high above me on the sides of the moun¬ 
tains the railroad wandered up toward the mountain cities. 
At other times, from high up on the sides, I looked down into 
the canyons. 

At one place where wagon road and railroad met, two men 
were burning railroad ties. Was there any shortcut from there 
to Rosemont? 

“Yes,” said one. 

“No”, said the other. 

Well, there was a shortcut from Fairview, they concluded, 
but both advised me to keep to the wagon road. 

“Will I know Fairview when I get to it?” This was not 
a foolish question. Many places with names on a railroad have 
not even a shed, much less a house, within sight. 

“Yes; three or four box cars are standing there.” 

I kept to the wagon road, and when I did get within sight 
of the box cars, was beyond them, and didn’t turn back to find 
the short-cut. The top of the North and South Canyons of 
Cheyenne Mountain come together at Fairview. 

After the first couple of hours coming up the mountain 
the Short-Line Cripple Creek Railway was often in sight. At 
times the wagon road wound through the bottom of a canyon, 
while here and there, above, the railroad twisted along the sides 
of the mountain. Then the wagon road would climb and now 
and then cross the railroad. 

On the map, Rosemont lays to the right of the wagon road 
to Cripple Creek, but I had trusted to seeing it from the road. 
Finally, I unwillingly began to believe I had passed the town 
without seeing it. Just as I made up my mind to this, the 
wagon road and railroad came together again, at the edge of a 
little round valley high up in the mountains, in which I could 
see one house and other ranch buildings. Went a couple of 
hundred feet down the railroad, to look for Rosemont. There 
was one of the black and white posts that on this road I believe 
mean one half mile to a “station,” usually merely a siding, but 
no houses in sight. Decided the post was a siding for the 
ranch house, as I could see the track again on the other side of 
the little valley. 


208 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


Discouraged, I went back to the wagon road. Shook the 
pebbles out of my shoes, preparatory to going as far as fast 
as possible before darkness came, when, I decided, I should again 
take the railroad, since it would be harder stumbling round 
the many curves of the wagon road even than over the rail¬ 
road ties. 

It was dreadful to think of darkness catching me up there- 

Took a fresh grip on my bag, and started on the triple¬ 
quick down the wagon road, for perhaps a hundred feet. Then, 
to my right, higher up on the side of the little valley than the 
ranch I had seen, was a little group of houses, with a school- 
house, or what looked like one. Once more I had beaten the 
darkness to it. I crossed over toward the houses. Asked the 
one small boy in sight if that w T as Rosemont. 

“Yah!” Nicest word I had heard all day. 

Rosemont appears to be completely surrounded by moun¬ 
tain tops, evergreen trees thinly scattered over their sides. 
Probably it wouldn’t admit it is on the side of a valley, as it 
is so far up in the mountains; perhaps “depression” would be 
a better word. Before the railroad was built to Cripple Creek, 
Rosemont was the “half-way house” of the trip. Now the town 
has perhaps twenty one-storey houses, a schoolhouse, and 
post-office store. Half a dozen of the houses are summer cot¬ 
tages connected with Rosemont-Lodge—a most happy place to 
stay. 

Everyone here knows of two trails coming up the moun¬ 
tain from Colorado Springs road. One of these cuts 17 miles 
of wagon road down to 7 or 8 miles; the other “takes only two 
hours from the base of the Mountain to Rosemont.” 

Very fine and warm all day. 

At the foot of Cheyenne Mountain I found a discarded 
mountain stick, and am carrying it. It is a little short, the end 
having been broken off a bit. 

The Rosemont Postmaster (a lady) signed my slip at 3 p.m. 
Very pleasant: she let me have a room at a cottage she owns 
near the Post Office. At this cottage is staying a lady that lives, 
in Burr Oak, Xansas,—a place I was very near on my wild 
rush over the hills to reach Mankato, weeks ago. The Lady of 
Rosemont Lodge is most likeable; she lives in Denver, and 
comes up here summers. 

Wandering around up here is the smallest burro I ever 
saw,—two months old. His mother got killed by the train; so 
each time a train is heard panting up the slope, some one rushes 
out frantically to “shoo” Baby Burro away from the track. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


209 


A new term for Walking: “pike.” Man at Colorado Springs 
asked me if I was “going to pike it” to Victor. If one has seen 
those seemingly endless national pikes stretch away in a straight 
line to the horizon, across the middle of the country, “pike it” 
is away ahead, in expressiveness, of “hike it” or “hoof it.” 

ROSEMONT TO VICTOR, COLORADO 

Tuesday , September 7* 

The Lady of the Lodge offered to get breakfast early for 
me; but I had such a short day ahead, I did not have it till 8 
o’clock. 

Last evening I spent a couple of hours talking to her 
about my trip; and thought at the time that I might be boring 
her. But this morning she said she had enjoyed my visit so 
much she wished me to consider that I had been her guest. 

From Rosemont, which I left at 10:30 a.m., walked up the 
Short Line a little way and then took the wagon road. Took 
the wrong road for a short time, but noticing that both the rail¬ 
road and main telephone (or telegraph) poles went in a dif¬ 
ferent direction, I turned back. Kept to the wagon road the 
whole way to-day, except for a short distance, until I came to 
the foot of the mountain on which Altman is built. It seemed as 
if there was much more down hill than up hill coming from 
Rosemont, but of course there isn’t. 

At a lonesome sign that said “Trail to Clyde, 1 mile,” I 
was thinking it was the most wild animalish and woodsy part of 
my walk so far, when shortly some houses came in sight. At a 
crossroads was a sign, Rosemont 7 miles, Cripple Creek 12 miles. 

In one of the canyons, where the road went along the bot¬ 
tom of the canyon, were a number of cattle. But the sides were 
steep, and I went around them up among the trees. The old 
white faced guardian of the herd got between me and the cows 
and kept his face to me till I got well past. 

Higher in the canyons, for some distance a stream sev¬ 
eral feet wide ran beside the road, bubbling over stones with 
series of little rapids. I have sometimes gone miles to see 
advertised “Falls” not so attractive as one place on this brook. 
These mountain creeks are clear water. Even before I got to 
Colorado Springs, I saw some streamlets of clear water. In 
the eastern part of the state they were whitish. 

Meeting a bunch of loose cattle on the wagon road, I crossed 
over to the railroad, to get a fence between us, as there was the 
ever present old guardian of the herd, of course, with his wrink- 


210 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

led face. A collie with the cattle had decided to put a fence 
between himself and me, and resented meeting me on the rail¬ 
road track. He was much surprised, and suspicious. He made 
a detour round me and started to sneak down the track back of 
me* this I resented and kept my eye on him; finally, he started 
up’across a field. Later, I noticed a ranchhouse of many 
towers; and not far from it a small log house, with padlocked 
door, and idly wondered to which the cattle and collie belonged. 

Just when an immense ore dump up on a mountin came in 
sight, I met a team. One man, little, weather-beaten, reddish- 
faced'; the other, large, gray, and dark-skinned. One of them 
asked if I had met a bunch of cattle; said that they were his, 
and that the dog belonged to the big gray man, but always stay¬ 
ed with the cattle. The little man said he had a ranch ahead. 

“The house with so many towers?” 

“Yes; we call it ‘The Gables/” 

work with him, and have just built a house on the road, 
the big gray man volunteered. , „ ^ J 

“And closed the windows, and padlocked the door, and left 
the dog to take care of it?” (I decided, when I passed the 
little house, that the collie had been trying to get back past me 
to guard it.) 

“Yes, that’s it,” agreed the B. G. M. 

A simple conversation to remember. But little things stand 
out on a long day’s tramp alone. These mountain tramps, 
however, are not lonesome; though dozens of times in the past 
two days I have wished someone were with me to appreciate the 
mountains. 

These men told me I could cut across the mountain, but 
wouldn’t save more than a mile. What with the chance of 
taking a wrong trail, I kept the road. 

When I came in sight of the mountain on which Altman is 
built, there seemed to be a bright, grayish trail straight up the 
side. It was some time before I got near enough to see that this 
apparent bright trail was made by the telegraph wires. The 
mountain was so steep that at a distance the poles did not show. 
Even from the very foot, the illusion of the wires being a 
trail up was strong, on account of the steepness. 

When I got to the foot, asked some men with a team if I 
could follow the poles right up to Altman. Yes; Altman was up 
there; but they advised the road. It was 1 Vi miles straight, 
up under the telegraph poles. Also told me I was the second wo¬ 
man that had passed through going to San Francisco; the other 
one came from Chicago. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


211 


I went up the steep, long hill under the wires, keeping a 
wary eye on some stray cattle feeding around. At one spot -lose 
to the top, the poles went so near to a mine that they were cov¬ 
ered nearly to their tops with crushed rock. Got a closer view 
of the mine dump that I had seen from the road where I met 
the first team, from which dump some extravagantly rich ore 
had been taken out. 

Got to Altman, and found not only no post office, but not 
even a store; though there was a saloon, and I suppose it is also 
the store. Inquired the way to Victor,—first of a dolled-up 
foreigner; then of a khaki-clad, gaitered, sombreroed man. He 
pointed it out, and the trail down. I went down a little way, but 
had doubts of being on the right trail. Met a man coming up 
(life insurance agent); in talking to him, I spoke of being dis¬ 
appointed in not finding a post office at Altman. He suggested 
my getting the Mayor’s signature. Back I went, and sat down 
on a long bench in the town hall, while he went to find the 
Mayor. The Town Hall had four or five chairs, all broken in 
places and mended with wire, a small flattop desk, kind of table- 
desk, and some other old furniture and things in it. 

The Mayor came; and he was my khaki-clad man. I was 
a little doubtful if they were not putting up a joke on me, as 
the insurance man had spoken of the Mayor as “old”. This man 
didn’t look more than forty—weather-beaten, to be sure, and 
hair graying. I asked him if they were putting up a joke, as 
the insurance man had said the Mayor was elderly. 

“Oh, I’m forty-eight.” 

He told me of Altman, the town that was. It used to be the 
biggest booming mining town around. It had eight saloons 
one year, and seven another (sure sign of prosperity in a mining 
country). But a fire swept it, most of the town was burned 
and never rebuilt, because there had been bigger strikes and 
richer mines located in nearby places, such as Victor and Gold¬ 
field. This man was Mayor years ago, when the town was 
booming; then, when it faded away and no one was willing to 
be Mayor, they asked him again, and, for the sake of the town 
that was,—his old town,— he accepted the Mayorality again. 

The Mayor wrote: 

“This is to certify that Miss Hill was at Altman, Colo., 
Sept. 7, 1915. 

“F. M. Doretty, Mayor.” 

Altman (now but a handful of houses on the mountain top) 


212 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


is the highest incorporated town in the United States: 10728 
feet elevation, according to a new survey, though the old one 
gave it 11,025 feet. 

To the side of the mountain, half a mile below, clings Inde¬ 
pendence. Lower, and across the narrow valley in the mountain 
tops lies Goldfield, with its white buildings, on the side of a 
depression between the mountains. Just around the mountain 
from Independence, but lower, is Victor, struggling to be a really 
city, with brick buildings. 

The sides of the mountains below Altman, as are the hills 
everywhere, are covered with ore dumps, and wonderful are the 
tales told of the value of ore taken out of certain mines. I 
dare not repeat them and expect to be believed. Perhaps it is 
the altitude that makes them seem plausible up here. 

From Altman I came down through Independence, a tiny 
town, named from the Independence Mine, a miraculously rich 
strike. The streets are steep, and thickly strewn with rocks. 
The one on which is the post office, is navigable for teams to 
within one building of the post office,—if they can get that far 
up the steep hill. 

The Independence Postmaster’s wife signed, after the delay 
of telephoning to him in Victor. 

From Independence, came along a railroad a short distance, 
and then dropped down to Victor by a path. Got here before 
dark, after about 18 miles. Coming down, I could see the west 
side of Pike’s Peak (I think it was) and the Sangre de Cristo 
Range. 

Young man here in the hotel at Victor has drawn a dia¬ 
gram of the roads and trails from here to Canon City,—23 
miles by trail, and 32 by road, he says. Hope I shall not get 
lost on it. He, too, says there is a trail from Colorado Springs 
up the mountain to Rosemont. Some day I shall come back and 
find that trail. 

I am giving Grand Junction, Colorado, as my next address* 
VICTOR AND GOLDFIELD, COLORADO 

Wednesday , September 8. 

Since I decided to go to Canon City via the mountains, I 
have regretted that my letters to mining companies through 
here were in my bag sent by express to that city. But this morn¬ 
ing while in the Post Office, where the assistant postmaster sign¬ 
ed at 7:30 a.m., one of the clerks asked if I had been into a gold 
mine. I told him I had the letters, but could hardly go to an 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


213 


office and say there was a letter to the Company in my bag at 
Canon City. He went across the room, and shortly returned, say¬ 
ing the State Mine Inspector was there and said he would take 
me into a gold mine if I wanted to go. 

We went down into the “Granite Mine”, which used to be the 
“Gold Coin.” A few years ago, it was the largest and deepest 
mine in the district, but now there are others larger and deeper. 

Down the mine shaft 1100 feet in a small elevator, me with 
a tight grip with both hands on the rod at the top of the car. 
The mine is about a hundred feet deeper, but on that lower level 
there is now a great deal of water. At one place, the mine fore¬ 
man I think it was, had just come up out of a hole leading to 
that lower level, in a kind of bucket. I suggested going down, 
but they said the way down was sloping and I might not be able 
to navigate it safely in the bucket. 

The cars in the mine are run by hand, by “trammers,” who 
get $3.00 for an 8-hour day; while the miners get $3.50 and 
$4.00 a day. (At least, that is the way I remember the wages.) 

The walls at the top slope toward the tunnels (this being 
the “overhanging wall”), and heavy logs (“stulls”) are put 
across to support this wall. The other wall is the “face wall”. 
Smaller logs put across two “stulls” are called “lagging”. The 
rock is drilled and blasted, and then the men load it down a 
chute on to the little cars. I peered down the empty vertical 
or semi-vertical tunnels where the ore has been taken out, 
which run from one level to another, the “stopes”. These are 
usually either planked over (to keep one from suddenly sliding 
through to the level below) or have a guard rail; but some have 
merely a plank laid across to walk on,—the smaller stopes, I sup¬ 
pose. The longest of these planks wasn’t more than a few feet 
long; but, not being brave, I either seized Mr. Inspector’s hand 
when I crossed, or he (probably to avoid my grip) took my arm. 

There were a few wet places in the mine, but generally it 
was dry; also, here and there a smell of powder. I carried the 
Inspector’s lamp, which gave a good light (a reflector on it), 
and he carried long white candles. There are no gasses in gold 
mines, so an open light is safe. We were through in a couple 
of hours. The mine really wasn’t very interesting. In a way, 
I’m glad; because I won’t be tempted to spend so much time 
at other mines and thus, perhaps, have the snows catch me 
on the Sierras. 

This afternoon I walked over to Goldfield and got the 
Postmaster’s signature at 3 p.m. It is supposed to be 2 miles 
from Victor, but it is the shortest two miles I ever walked. 


214 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

It looks quite a distance but took me only about 25 minutes. 
That is one odd thing about these mountain towns—they look 
farther away than they are; contrary to the assertions of 
tourists and guidebooks. 

Instead of being a town of white buildings in a depression 
in the hills, as it looked coming down from Altman, Goldfield 
really rests on the side of a hill; the streets are steep. 

In the views of the mountains I have had for the last two 
days, the only thing the wildest imagination could take for 
snow was on the west side of Pike’s Peak—several small white 
patches. I think it was snow. All the other mountains looked 
entirely brown. It may be that imperceptible clouds hid the 
“snow-capped peaks”,—I don’t know. 

The longest part of the walk is over; though the coming 
1500 miles (and over, for the wagon roads will add up the 
mileage) are the hardiest. To-morrow I will be in Canon City 
(if I don’t get lost in the mountains), and I have always thought 
of Canon City as the half-way city on my trip—in time. In 
distance, it is much more than half. 

I am feeling fine, but am surprised every time I see myself 
in a mirror—sometimes at being so thin, and sometimes at being 
so bronze-colored. Suppose I notice it more, because I don’t 
see my reflection every day. In one week, there were three 
days when I had to fix my hair without a mirror,—that’s what 
one gets for tramping north of the regular travel routes— 
doesn’t get, rather. 

Encouraging people are telling me that no one can cross the 
Salt Lake Desert on foot,—the “Great American Desert.” Even 
parties of hardy pioneers met death in crossing it—while I am 
alone! 


VICTOR TO CANON CITY, COLORADO 

Thursday , September 9. 

(This is being written the 10th, for good and sufficient reasons) 
Got away from Victor the 9th, yesterday, about 7:30 a.m., 
with the sketch of the trail the young man had given me. Struck 
the first snag very soon. A road that on the sketch went to my 
left, really goes sharply uphill to the right. Inquired, but no 
one round there knew the way by trail to Canon City, only by 
automobile road, which they said was 36 miles—it had increased 
four miles in length the day I spent in Victor, as a couple days 
ago the Victor people said it was only 32 miles by auto road. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 215 

Just as well I didn’t stay there longer, at that rate of mileage 
increase. 

Was told that a certain ranchman near Victor had lived 
there many years and would know the trail. He was away, but 
his wife was intelligent, and gave me directions, though she 
didn’t know the trail—if there was one. She said to follow the 
telegraph poles; that it was 23 miles by telegraph line to Canon 
City. 

I chased those poles up and down hill, always uneasily 
watching for cattle,—which, when they saw me, ran from me. 
Up and down hill I wandered, following those poles. When they 
ran down a hill close to a ranch where a big dog barked at me, 
I kept well up on the side of the hill, so as not to tempt him to 
come nearer. A woman stood in the door, and I waved my hand 
to her; but, being a woman, she wouldn’t wave back at any 
strange woman. 

Shortly after, rounding a hill, an elderly man rode over a 
hill to my right, plainly heading me off. He rode a brown 
horse, with a coil of rope over the saddle (did he mean to lasso 
the wandering woman, if she didn’t stop?), and the big dog 
from the house with him. He said the woman I waved to 
thought it was some one that knew him, but he thought it was 
some one lost in the hills: they had been watching me wander 
up and down, apparently aimlessly. He considered the tele¬ 
graph-pole method of getting to Canon City out of the question, 
and very much farther than 23 miles; said there were streams 
and gulches that one couldn’t cross on foot. (Perhaps the 23 
miles is airline distance). He directed me to take an old road 
till I got to the “second gulch”; then go down between two 
empty cabins, and from there on take the trail—“no more hills 
to climb”—to Canon City. Said when I got on that trail 1 
“couldn’t get off it,” and laughed. 

While we were talking, a man wandered over a hill near us. 
Later, after the rancher had gone back with his lasso and dog, 
this man (plainly, a city man) crossed over to the hill I was 
then on. Said that fifteen years ago he knew the roads and 
trails through there, but had gotten off his way, things had 
changed so in that time. We went on together. We found the 
remains of parts of an old road, although I do not think it was 
the one the ranchman meant; but it climbed hills and dropped 
into two gulches. Wandering down the second gulch we found 
two cabins, between which we crossed, and stopped at a stream 
that ran through the bottom of the gulch. The trail we were 


216 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

on crossed the stream and went sharply up over a steep little 
hill; another, less plain, trail seemed to run down the gulch. 

My fellow-tramper had walked from Denver to Victor, on 
his way to Phoenix, Arizona, where his wife and child were to 
meet him; they going from Denver by train. His next stop be¬ 
yond Victor was to be at Florence, about seven miles east of 
Canon City; and, like me, he had attempted to cross down by 
trail. 

In discussing the rancher’s directions, he thought the nat¬ 
ives thereabouts would not consider the steep rise ahead of us 
as a hill, providing there was no more uphill beyond it. He 
climbed the rise, saw that the trail dropped down into the can¬ 
yon beyond, and called to me. Meanwhile, I had been sitting by 
the stream, and had about decided to take the faint trail down 
the stream. This I tried to call up to him, but he didn’t under¬ 
stand. So I started up, only after a minute to find I had left 
my Cheyenne Mountain stick by the stream and to go back for 
it. 

I climbed the little hill; and there straight down ahead of 
us, was a clearly defined trail; and below, a very long way be¬ 
low, we could make out poles. 

“The Canon City Telegraph poles again!” we rejoiced. 

Down we went—and it was down. A horse had recently 
been down the trail—or slid down. And the Tramper said a 
man had left Victor that morning to ride over the pole line. We 
figured he had taken this as a short-cut, and considered that 
circumstantial evidence that we were on the right trail. Then, 
too, this trail agreed with the ranchman’s description—once you 
got into it, you couldn’t get off it. It went down the rocky 
steep grade for a long way,—a kind of stoney ditch in the moun¬ 
tain side. 

At the bottom of the steep trail we came to the poles— 
and the trail ended! The poles were there, but had no wires. 
Instead of being the Canon City Telegraph line, they were tele¬ 
phone poles that used to carry a line for a narrow-guage rail¬ 
road from Canon City to Victor,—now abandoned, as was the 
railroad. The roadbed was there, but even the rails had been 
taken up. I had asked in Victor about this way of getting to 
Canon City,—the railroad is shown on my map,—and had been 
told it wasn’t passable; that when it was built, there were over 
two hundred trestles on it, and the roadbed had been washed 
out in places, and the rails taken up. Some one had, however, 
told the Tramper that the old roadbed was a good road, but long. 

The Tramper was much worried; blamed himself for my 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


217 


having taken the wrong trail. That was absurd; for had I 
been alone I might have taken that same trail, as it was the 
plainest one from the stream. The ranchman who rode over 
the hill, had said it was 18 miles by trail from where he met 
me to Canon City. 

Here, just where we came down on to the roadbed, was one 
of the old mileposts, “C. C. 23.”—23 miles more to Canon City, 
and I had been walking steadily since 7:30! It was exactly 12 
o’clock when we got down to that roadbed. I was somewhat 
tired, and the shock of finding I had five more miles to go than 
I had had a couple hours before, started me laughing. My 
laughing seemed to add to the Tramper’s annoyance for a few 
minutes; then he, too, began wanly to smile, and said it was a 
good thing I could take it that way. 

We talked of my turning back and his going on. But there 
was at least a mile of that exceedingly steep uphill before I 
could get back to the cabins and try the other trail—and it 
might not be the right one, either. We figured that by rushing 
I could get to Canon City by dark, and he to Florence. I told 
him to go on ahead, as I probably wouldn’t travel as fast as he 
would want to. He had before this told me he could make four 
miles an hour and keep it up all day. I knew I couldn’t. So 
he said that after we got well into the canyons and he was sure 
I would have no difficulty, he would go on by himself. 

We started off down the roadbed. The mileposts were still 
standing; and for six miles we ticked off the miles at 15 minutes 
a mile. There were a number of trestles, a couple of them high. 
These I took one tie at a step, going slow, and then rushed to 
make up time. 

After we passed the Canon City 17-mile post troubles be¬ 
gan. Some of the high trestles had been burned; some had 
been washed away by the stream that runs through the canyon. 
In these places, it was scramble down to the stream, find a place 
to cross it on stones, sometimes getting across with dry feet, 
sometimes with wet. (He threw extra stepping stones in, in 
places, and a couple of times railroad ties for a semi-bridge). 
Then, a scramble up to the roadbed again, and walk on to the 
next missing bridge. It wasn’t always easy to get down to 
the stream when the out-bridges came. In one place the bridge 
had been torn away and thrown across to the other side of the 
narrow canyon, the rails bent and twisted and lying round,— 
a proof of what that little stream could do when it rose in the 
winter. One bridge had its back broken (literally), the nearer 
end standing up. Here we clambered up over the end, walked 


218 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

downstairs on the ties, bracing our feet against the lower rail 
(the track slanted sideways as well as being broken-backed), 
holding on to the upper ends of the ties with our hands, till 
we reached the second section,—beyond the broken-backed angle, 
when we could walk across the rest of the bridge to the roadbed 
again. 

In a few places the roadbed itself had disappeared into the 
stream, leaving but a narrow strip of ground on the side of the 
canyon. (The railroad had been built part way up the side of 
the canyon.) 

A few times we stayed down by the side of the stream 
for a short distance, until, for lack of a place to walk, we had 
to go up to the roadbed again. Once we edged round the side 
of the stream on the rocks, to save crossing it twice between 
two washouts of the track a few hundred feet apart. The 
canyon was so narrow there was no possibility of walking down 
by the stream—it occupied the whole of the bottom, the canyon 
sides going up steeply from the water. 

Where perhaps for half a mile or more the rails had not 
been taken up, some detached wheels of a handcar made us wish 
for enough of one to get on and coast down a little way at least. 
Farther on, just where the rails ended, stood a small handcar. 

Here and there were abandoned mine openings in the side of 
the canyon. Two tunnels varied the trip, running through the 
rock on a slant, so that until very close to the tunnel the light 
from the farther side could not be seen through. In each case, 
Tramper gathered slim dry sticks for torches, which, however, 
we did not need to use, as the tunnels were short. He said 
that if a wild animal should be in a place like an old tunnel, 
it will make its escape if possible before a lighted torch; that 
they always retreat before fire. In all his trampings through 
the Rocky Mountains, he has never known of a wild animal at¬ 
tacking a person, if not interfered with. 

The scenery through the little canyon was beautiful. It 
would seem that it might have paid to run the railroad just as a 
scenic trip; but I suppose the cost of upkeep would be tre¬ 
mendous, on account of the washouts. The canyon is very 
narrow, with high sides, the tiny stream forming the bottom 
of it. That the stream is not always small, was shown by the 
washed-out and broken bridges. We thought the burned ones 
must have been burned intentionally, to keep people from walk¬ 
ing through on the roadbed and coming to grief,—there is no 
other way to walk through. The canyon turns and twists all 
the way down. I would have missed some of the finest scenery 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


219 


of the trip, if we had not blundered into this wonderful little 
canyon. 

At the first, and only, telephone box we passed (wires long 
since taken away, of course), Tramper “called up” the office and 
ordered the road cleared for us; so, having right of way as a 
special for Canyon City, we met no trains. Now and then we 
stopped, and he smoked cigarettes, partly in lieu of lunch, 
and partly, I think, to keep up his courage: my share was snif¬ 
fing the smoke that drifted over to me. At one of our stops, 
we ordered dinner—and such a dinner! We drank more or less 
water, my aluminum mug being of use at last. We did not stop 
at any of the stations, which had been close together—were 
running express—“Limited”, and very limited. Sometimes the 
“Station 1 mile” posts were still standing; and in one place 
a water tank had not yet fallen down. Across the canyon in 
several places were empty cabins. At “Cramer” the sign was 
still there. 

The roadbed and switches without rails, the station sign 
where there was no other sign of a station, the lonesome water 
tank, the burned bridges, the abandoned mine openings, the few 
empty cabins across the canyon, made a desolation through the 
length of that canyon,—a feeling of desolation that doesn’t exist 
in the wildest canyon that has never had these signs of human 
beings having once been there. 

The railroad crosses and recrosses the stream—almost end¬ 
lessly. After a few hours, our chief concern came to be, not 
whether we should reach Canyon City before dark, but whether 
we should be able to get out of that narrow canyon before dark. 
Many times we congratulated ourselves that we had ordered 
such a nice dinner, as otherwise we might have been hungry! I 
heard a noise far off that sounded like crowing, and said a ranch 
and fowls must be near; but the Man said it was some wild 
animal; that he had often heard it far up in the mountains. 

Where the canyon widened out into a small valley, there was 
an empty house on each side; roofs of a couple other houses were 
far off, and cultivated fields nearer. A team harrowing one 
field showed that there must be an inhabited house not very 
far off. 

In this valley we took an old wagon road, with prairie dogs’ 
holes at the sides. Just before dark we came to a house—a 
house where people were living! We knew we must be near 
where the narrow gauge road used to branch, one line going to 
Florence, the other to Canon City. I said if the people would 
let me stay all night, I would do so. Before this, the Tramper 


220 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


had declined to go on faster than I was travelling. Said we 
were walking just as fast as he wanted to walk, and as fast as 
he would if he were alone. 

A woman came out to the door; at the barn, some distance 
away, the men were unharnessing. We asked for supper. 

“Haven’t anything in the house,” she told us. And that was 
all. No amount of pleading and offer to pay could move her 
from that statement. Before we stopped, the Tramper had 
said that he just had to get supper there, and they must give it 
to us. 

He explained that I was walking to San Francisco, how we 
happened to meet on the trail and had taken the wrong trail, 
and had not had anything to eat since early morning. But what 
did she care? Then he asked if I could stay all night; that he 
would go on to Florence. 

“No room,” and to this, too, she held. 

The woman said there was “a large house” three quarters 
of a mile farther on, where I “could get to stay;” that the 
people had an automobile, and might drive him down to Florence. 
I asked which road led to the house; and she hesitated. Then, 
she said it was right on the roadway we were going—the only 
road to go. Neither of us believed her; and were not sur¬ 
prised when no house appeared, though we stood on the lower 
rail of the fence at times to try to catch the gleam of a light 
from any possible house. 

The wagon road ran parallel to what we thought was the 
Florence branch of the abandoned railroad. Dusk changed to 
darkness just as we left the house at the junction. 

Soon after dark, we came to crossroads, and had no idea 
what road to take: all dark expanse of fields. Soon saw a light 
and waited for it: a motorcycle with a man and woman on it. 
They said the road straight ahead led to Florence, but they 
didn’t know how far it was; that Canon City was seven miles 
down the right-hand road. Tramper told our hungry tale, and 
asked them if they had a sandwich. (I am uncertain even now 
whether ordering that dinner sitting on the rocks in the can¬ 
yon made us more, or less, hungry; anyway, it passed the time, 
and gave us something to joke about the rest of the walk). 
The woman produced an apple and a paper with some cookies, 
from her raincoat pockets. Then they started up their motor¬ 
cycle and disappeared in the darkness. 

We found a depression in the sand of the road for our feet, 
and sat down on the road and ate (the first bite for me since 
breakfast at 6:30 that morning). We divided the cookies fifty- 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


221 


fifty, and broke the apple in two. I vaguely wondered if there 
were any snakes near, but was too tired to wonder very actively: 
was glad of a hollow for my feet and something to eat. A 
lighted match showed the time to be 7:10 p.m. 

The motorcyclists knew of no house anywhere through 
there, except the one at which we had stopped and possibly a 
small mountain cabin in the hills. v 

Sitting in the road, we discussed the going-on program. 
He faintly said he could go to Canon City with me and back 
to Florence in the morning. I knew, by the way he had talked 
before, that he was anxious to get to Florence and get mail 
that night, so I faintly said it didn’t matter to me; I would go 
to Florence, and start to-morrow’s walk from there instead of 
from Canon City. He faintly refused to let me go out of my 
way to Florence—very faintly. I was too scared to walk 
seven miles to Canon City alone in the dark, over unknown roads, 
with risks of crossroads and forks. I felt safe in saying I would 
do so, however, for I knew the poor man couldtaPt let a tovoman 
go on alone in the blackness of the lonesome road. We agreed 
on flipping a coin: heads, we both went to Canon City; tails, 
to Florence. It came tails. He promptly decided we would not 
go to Florence; said we knew how far it was to Canon City 
and didn’t know about Florence. I think we had both known 
how we should go, and only talked of the alternative in some¬ 
thing the same way we had ordered dinner—to break the strain 
of our weariness. 

We got up and went on. At a little after 8 , we sat down 
on the roadside again to rest. Tramper had a blistered heel by 
that time: he was wearing high “walking boots.” Sat a while, 
and went on, wallowing through sand in the dark. It was a 
very dark night, though there were a few stars. Once I stop¬ 
ped 3*1 instant, to feel for a better footing, and he almost dis¬ 
appeared in the darkness, though only a few feet away. It was 
a dreadful, sandy road. I glanced from side to side into the 
darkness, coyotes in mind. 

After a time, the road got better. On the better road, 
there were more or less trees on the sides, which didn’t make 
the way any lighter. Some lights that we had seen ahead of us, 
apparently across fields to one side, and that had disappeared, 
again appeared back of us across the country. We began to 
fear we had passed the turn to Canon City. 

An auto came along, and the men in it told us we were 
four miles from Canon City. We refused their offer to ride 
in with them; the Tramper explaining I was walking from 


222 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


Washington D. C., to San Francisco, and we had met by acci¬ 
dent that day and lost our trail down from Victo*. a man in 
the car said: 

“I take off my hat to a lady that will walk across the coun¬ 
try —which he did. 

The poor man with me—how he must have longed to get 
into that car! 

For half a mile or more, there was a loose horse ahead of 
us; we could hear his feet now and then, galloping towards us 
or away from us. 

Finally, an electric street-light. Right there was a big 
field with trees, and a notice that it was camping-ground for 
campers with horses. Part way across it was something that 
looked like a mound of hay or straw. I was pretty nearly 
“dead beat,” but Tramper had been almost staggering for the 
last mile. Perhaps I was, too,—I couldn’t see my own gait. But 
I had half a continent back of me, and he had only walked the 
distance from Denver down. We sat at the edge of this field 
for some time, leaning against the trunk of a big tree. Had he 
but suggested it, I think I would gladly have gone over to that 
straw pile and stayed there, rather than walk the last mile into 
the city. After a long rest, we went on. 

Into the city,—it was then 10:40 p.m.—where we ate puffed 
rice and milk in a restaurant—at least, I did; have no idea 
what he ate; too tired to notice. 

The last I saw of the Tramper, he was sitting crumpled up 
on a lounge, waiting till the landlady should stow me away. 
We were at the point of tiredness where neither thought of even 
shaking hands after our escape from the darkness of the roads, 
or of saying farewell. Last I heard of him, they passed down 
the hall, he telling the landlady he wanted an inside room where 
he would sleep late in the morning. His name? I neither know 
nor care. Just another “ship that passed, and in passing, 
spoke.” 

We must have made considerably over 40 miles in our 
wanderings, including my wanderings before we met. I had 
walked for 4 V 2 hours before we got to the old road-bed at 12 
o’clock; then 23 miles on the abandoned railroad; besides the 
many climbings up and down the sides of the canyon where the 
bridges were washed out; and the extra distance of the wagon 
roads from the time we got to “Oro Junction”,—well, it must 
have made about 48 miles. But it seemed more than that! 



SKYLINE DRIVE 

Rounding every curve, I felt as if I should walk off the 

ridge” 








































• V 






TO SAN FRANCISCO 
CANON CITY TO PARKDALE, COLORADO 


223 


Friday , September 10. 

Was late getting up this morning in Canon City; pretend¬ 
ed to myself that I was waiting till the money order office 
should open, as I had paid my last money for supper and room 
last night. Went to the Post Office where the Postmaster 
signed at 9 a.m. He was most helpful; told me about the rail¬ 
road up through the canyons (my road to-day being the rail¬ 
road), and gave me a letter to the Postmaster here at Parkdale. 

After breakfast, went chopping. My grip that I am 
expressing through didn’t show up; spent a lot of time hunting 
round for it. Was weighed in the Wells Fargo Express office: 
117 pounds light now. 

Walked up the “Skyline Drive”. Took a shortcut going 
up (pretty nearly on “all fours”), but not coming down. From 
the Drive, the city seems covered with trees. The view is ex¬ 
tensive, and well worth the walk. I came down feeling very 
railroad tressley. On the way down had a chat with a man 
from Michigan (here for health) and his daughter, 

The “Skyline Drive” is a skyline drive. The road goes 
up over the centre of a narrow limestone ridge 800 feet high 
in places, and runs along the backbone of it, climbing always 
higher, standing out against the sky. Rounding every curve 
in the road, I felt as if I should walk off the ridge with the next 
turn—not a pleasant sensation. Beautiful as was the view, 
and unique the walk up and down, I was glad to get back to 
earth again. The “Skyline Drive” has none of the solid back¬ 
ing of mountains upon mountains, like the road to Rosemont. 
Perhaps my long walk yesterday has shaken what nerve I had. 
Anyway, the Skyline walk was not one of unmixed delight. 

Went back to my room, packed my bag, and at 2:40 started 
for the 11 railroad miles to Parkdale. Passed the Peneten- 
tiary, and “Soda Springs,” where, of course, I drank. Just 
beyond the Soda Springs, took the Denver and Rio Grande 
Railroad. Met a man and his son, who were taking a short 
walk on the railroad. The man said he would like to take a 
long walk like I am taking, but wants “a more thickly populated 
country to walk through” than that around Canon City. 

Ever since planning the trip, I have had fears about cros¬ 
sing the “hanging bridge” in the Royal Gorge. In crossing it 
each time on the train, I have wondered how anyone would 
manage to get across on foot. The Canon City Postmaster 
told me that the only way to fall off this bridge was to jump 


224 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


over the railing; and that there were planks at the side between 
railing and tracks. I found this true. And now I have walked 
over the “hanging bridge”, which is suspended from the rocks 
above instead of resting its weight on piers built up from below. 

As I got to this bridge, a little, fattish, white-mustached 
man was coming over it toward me. He didn’t seem to under¬ 
stand when I asked if a train was due to come down the track. 
I said I knew one would soon come up the railroad, and he said, 

“Yes, yes, better wait awhile.” 

Inclination bade me stay and talk to this little old man of 
the Canyon, who had a long roll covered with burlap over his 
shoulder; common sense told me to hurry over the bridge. 
After he told me about a mine of diamonds in these mountains, 
of which he had a plan in his pocket (patting his breast pocket), 
I went on, inclination and common sense then both pointing that 
way. 

Here at Parkdale I learn that the man is an old prospector, 
out of his head on that one subject; that he has no home, but 
wanders up and down a stretch of twenty miles of canyon; no 
one knows where he sleeps. All the people through the can¬ 
yon let him have a meal whenever he comes around; he was at 
the postmaster’s house yesterday. Sometimes it is a gold mine 
that he has the plan of, sometimes silver, sometimes he knows 
where diamonds are in the mountains. Poor old man! 

The Postmaster of Parkdale says he superintended the 
building of the original Denver and Rio Grande through here; 
that it was all narrow gauge at first, and then longer ties were 
put in and a third rail, so that both standard and narrow 
gauge trains could run over the same track; that was about 
twenty years ago. He has lived here over 35 years. He is both 
well read and entertaining—the two don’t always go together. 
His son has a farm up in the mountains, and down by the 
river at Parkdale has put in an engine for pumping water up 
to his farm. 

The Canon City pipe line runs up the canyon quite a way. 
At first, a road seems to run beside it; then a path; and then 
the pipe itself is the path for the men who go up to inspect 
it. There are cement dams and small reservoirs, or pools, 
where the pipe line begins. The man in charge has his house 
there, and, among other things, a small flock of goats. They 
were coming down the steep side of the mountain as I passed. 
(Are these the mountain goats that tourists are told may be 
seen high up in the mountain as the train goes along?) 

The day was rather warm at first, but a cool breeze blew 



THE HANGING BRIDGE 
“I have no fears about crossing the bridge” 











TO SAN FRANCISCO 


225 


up the canyon. I have been coming upward all day long,from 
the 5344 foot elevation of Canon City, to 5,800 here at Park- 
dale; the Royal Gorge being about 5500. 

Looking up to the sky from the Royal Gorge, I didn’t see 
any stars* But I notice that they only “may be seen at mid¬ 
day,” not can be seen. Besides, it was in the middle of the 
afternoon, and not midday, when I passed through. 

I can’t describe the Gorge. If I tried, it would be to use 
the same words over and over— and besides, would seem like 
a railroad guidebook. One thing: no one should claim to have 
seen the Goige without walking through, since there is no 
wagon road. My other trips through, in the observation car 
of the train, gave me very little idea of it. The canyon turns 
frequently, so that the high walls were ahead and back of me 
as well as on both sides. And always at my side, a little lower 
than the railroad, the Arkansas River, in many places foamy 
over stones. The water must surely flow differently even when 
the River is away down on the prairies, for having travelled 
through here; and how it must long to return! 

For eight or ten miles the stupendous towering brown and 
reddish and grayish rocks are most imposing. They go up¬ 
ward from the railroad on one side and from the river on the 
other, high, high. At the hanging bridge,—the narrowest point 
of the Gorge, only about 30 feet wide,—the rocks are over 2600 
feet high; but a few hundred feet more or less in height is not 
noticeable when one stands below and looks up at the towering 
rocks and crags above. Then there are huge wild clefts, or 
gulches, where the high jagged rocks are even more impressive. 

About 16 miles to-day: besides the walk from Canyon 
City to Parkdale, and around in Canon City, there was the trip 
up the Skyline Drive and back. 

A letter from Boston received at Canyon City has a clip¬ 
ping that the old Tip-Top House on Mt. Washington, New 
Hampshire, burned just as the new Summit House was ready to 
open. The queer little slope^roof, sky-lighted rooms will hold 
no more shivering guests; “Jimmie” will no more light roaring 
fires in the hall stoves. Many hundreds will regret the old land¬ 
mark. 

At Parkdale to-night; the Postmaster here signed at 6:30 
p.m. Am staying at his house. Coyotes have just been yelp¬ 
ing around, which has started a dog barking beside the house. 


226 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


PARKDALE TO COTOPAXI, COLORADO 

Saturday, September 11. 

At Cotopaxi to-night, nearly 21 miles by railroad from 
Parkdale, but I came mostly by wagon road, up the Rainbow 
Drive. 

Mrs. Postmaster at Parkdale didn’t want to take any pay; 
but I wouldn't hear of that, so we compromised, she saying I 
could pay for my room, but not for supper and breakfast. 

Got away between 9 and 10 after posting D. B's. Mr. 
Postmaster came across the river with me, to start me on the 
new automobile road that is being built, and also to get a 
pail of water for the house: their breakfast water supply being 
brought in the night before from the river. 

We crossed the Arkansas on a swinging bridge, four boards 
wide, with wire for a handrail and chicken wire at the sides to 
keep people from sliding through into the water. The last 
part of the bridge is only three boards wide, one plank having 
got lost. 

For a little way the automobile road is good. But in places 
the sand is deep and very bad walking. 

Where the roadway ran between two rocks, perhaps 20 
feet high, was a little hand forge, but no one in sight. Learned 
at noon that a tablet is to be placed on the face of the rock, 
telling that it was convict labor built that part of the road. 

The river was on the right, below the roadway. Several 
times I went down to the edge, once getting a handful of the 
sand from the bottom, with its bright giltlike specks of mica. 
A few workmen were on the road, apparently finishing up stray 
little bits. 

Toward noon, I began to watch out for a possible lunch 
stop. At one place where there was quite a little grove, below the 
road and between it and the river, there were a number of tents 
under the trees,—some horses’ tents, too. An automobile slow¬ 
ly drove up to the road from this grove. I thought they had 
been having dinner and perhaps I, too, could get mine there. 
So I asked if one could buy a dinner down at the tents. A 
stout man in the back seat of the car said no, at first; but 
when I asked if there was any place on the road to get a lunch, 
he said, slowly: 

“No, there isn’t. Well, you can’t buy dinner down there, 
but they will let you have one.” 

He called to a man, whose name I have forgotten, and 
said for me to go on down to the tents. Two men sauntering 



ROYAL GORGE ABOVE CANYON CITY 
“The man wanted a more settled country to walk in” 






TO SAN FRANCISCO 


227 


round, seeing me coming down, came to meet me and told me 
to go up to one of the tents (the nearest one) and wait; that 
the man who had gone up to the road would be back in a minute. 

It only just then occurred to me that I had stumbled into 
the camps of the convicts who were road-building,—and I had. 
As I walked up the road (the ‘Rainbow Drive”) I had forgot¬ 
ten that it was being built by convicts—the few men I saw were 
not in prison garb; nor were any of the men round this camp, 
so far as I could see. 

The Superintendent, coming back from the automobile, 
called one of the men to go down and tell someone to get me 
dinner. All the men but the Superintendent (whose wife 
is with him) and one other man are convicts. The stout man 
in the automombile who had sent me down to the camp is the 
Warden of the Penetentiary at Canon City. He was up this 
morning to take away an engineer from the camp, that he 
wanted to put on work somewhere else. He sends the con¬ 
victs out to work on the roads when he thinks they are getting 
ill from confinement, or for half a dozen other reasons. They 
do not have to wear striped clothes; but if one man escapes, 
or tries to escape, the rest of the convicts try to catch him to 
bring him back; because if a man does get away, the rest work¬ 
ing with him have to go back to the Penetentiary. Very seldom 
anyone gets away, naturally. 

When my dinner was ready, the young man came back 
and took me over to the small tent where I was to eat. Another 
young man was just finishing putting food on the table. The 
one who went down with me came in and sat down over near 
the door. 

“You going to eat, too?” palpably sarcasm. 

“Oh, no; I’m not ready to eat yet.” 

“Well, if you’re going to stay in here, you wait on table,” 
and the one who had set the table went out. 

I told the young man about my walk, trying to avoid 
having any pauses, for I didn’t want him to feel that I might 
be thinking of their being convicts. Everything was good, and 
well cooked; even the apple pie was fine,—I don’t generally eat 
apple pie, but I ate this. The cook there is a real cook, an 
Italian, who got into the Penetentiary for something or other. 
And he surely knows how to cook. 

The dinner bell rang after a while, but the young man sat 
still. The Superintendent came to the door: 

“Go to dinner!” 

It was an order—the tone of voice one uses to a dog when 


228 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


lie has been doing something wrong. I don’t suppose the Super¬ 
intendent was conscious of the tone he used. The young man 
slouched off. 

Mrs. Superintendent said she would divide the “tip” be¬ 
tween the cook and the man who set the table for me; that their 
accounts would be credited with it,—the men aren’t allowed 
to have money until they leave the Penetentiary. 

When I left the Camp, after another chat with Mrs. Super¬ 
indent, Mr. Supt. came up the road a short distance with me. 
We passed a rock on which a man was putting, “End of Con¬ 
vict Labor.” A little farther along, Mr. Superintendent said: 

“You are safe now, and I will go back.” 

It took me an instant to grasp his meaning. Then I want¬ 
ed to know if it was on account of the convicts that he came 
up the road with me,—although I said “men” (and they were 
a nice appearing bunch of men). He said it was. It had not 
occurred to me to be afraid coming up the road to the camp, 
nor would I have thought of it the short distance from the camp 
to the end of their road. There were, however, a great many 
more working on this end, and I suppose he felt responsible for 
me. 

This new piece of road is 21 miles long; it is to be for¬ 
mally opened this month. “Free Labor,” as they call it here, 
built the 10 miles from Cotopaxi down; the other 11 miles has 
been built by convict labor, except for a $3000 part that was 
built with money from the “Rockefeller Foundation.” As the 
total cost of building the road has been $150,000, that $3,000 is 
a very small part of roadway. The convicts commenced work 
on their part in July, 1913; and the free labor in September, 
1913. 

I kept the roadway up to Texas Creek (6210 feet eleva¬ 
tion). Here the post office is in the depot. A stout man, who 
announced that he was “very busy,” signed for me at 3:27 p.m., 
though not very willingly. Outside the station, I asked some 
men where I could get water, and one of them told me to get 
a drink on a train that was standing there, waiting to go up 
into the Wet Mountains. Another man got on the car and 
got the water for me,—ice water. From Texas Creek took 
the railroad to Cotopaxi. 

A mile or two before Cotopaxi, a train passed me. The 
engine and some of the cars had disappeared round a curve 
close ahead, when I heard two sharp shots and the train stopped. 

Was the train held up by a mountain bandit? 

Or had the engineer of the train fired at a mountain lion? 



MILES OF THE ROYAL GORGE 
“I can’t describe the Royal Gorge” 











TO SAN FRANCISCO 


229 


Then it whistled wildly and started on, stopping again a 
minute later, with more shrill whistles. I stood still when I 
heard the shots. Should I stand there, quaking, on my side of 
the curve, or go on? 

Whether mountain lion or bandits., I wanted to be as close 
to that train as possible when I had to pass the mountain lion 
or bandit. So I hurried round the curve, to find nothing but 
an empty track (the train having disappeared round the next 
curve) : no bandits, no mountain lion. Of the latter, I was 
particularly glad; if it were either,—and I thought it must 
be one,—I preferred bandits. Can’t understand how the train 
started after its second stop without my hearing it—unless my 
ears had been pounding too loudly to let me hear. 

A short distance farther on, passed some tools on the 
track, and ceased to watch for the lion. The first stop, the train 
had probably exploded torpedoes (the shots I heard) : the second 
stop was to take on workmen who had been using those tools. 

The hotel here at Cotopaxi is full, so I got a room at one 
of the houses: again a front room, downstairs, with a couch bed. 
I didn’t want it, as the railroad is close in front of the house, 
but had no choice. The Postmaster (a woman) signed at 6:30 
p.m. 

Cotopaxi (elevation 6385 feet) is on a kind of plateau in 
the mountains. The Sangre de Cristo Range, to the left and 
ahead, is far enough off to enable one to get a good view of 
it from here. Black Mountain—almost a little range of itself— 
is on the north. 

That “Rainbow Drive” doesn’t live up to its name: the 
name made me expect too much. I was constantly expecting 
rainbow hues, and being disappointed. Had they given it some 
other name, one wouldn’t expect so much. Of the interest and 
beauty of the scenery, there is no question, and at times the 
cliffs may be rainbow-hued, but not to-day. The river is at the 
right, lower than the roadway, with the single track railroad 
beyond the river. There are many shady little level spaces 
between the roadway and river. The canyon walls are less 
high and abrupt than those of yesterday, and it spreads out 
into a narrow little valley. 

The wind has been blowing down the canyon all day, swirl¬ 
ing the sharp dust into my eyes. 

COTOPAXI TO SALIDA, COLORADO 

Sunday , September 12. 

Left Cotopaxi by the railroad track. Met a foreigner, 


230 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


a little later heard some one calling, and he was hurrying after 
me. I knew he could overtake me, so I waited. He asked the 
usual questions about where I was going, etc. Not liking his 
appearance, I advised him to go back to Cotopaxi, telling him: 

“I’m walking faster than you—goodby.” 

He turned back, and made tracks for the town again. 

Great masses of rock towered above the canyon. At one 
place, a khaki-clad man was crouched down worshipping the 
Spirit of the Rock; though when I asked if he were doing so, he 
denied it, saying he belongs to the United States Geological 
Survey in Washington; expects to get back in November. Had 
his little stone tapping outfit with him, and a camera. We 
walked up the track several miles together, and then he stopped 
to investigate another rock spirit, and I went on. 

The mountain range to the west is the rugged Sangre de 
Cristo, generally referred to as “snowy”, but it does not seem 
to have any snow on it now. Soon after leaving Cotopaxi (a 
couple of hours) the range looked whitish. On nearer view, 
it changed to light gray, and then to the light brownish that 
all these mountains are now. The whitish appearance may 
have been due to the sun shining on frost in the early morning. 

The canyon grows narrower for a little way. The high 
rocks tower above the track, and the mountains to the right and 
left get nearer. Then it broadens out into the valley in which 
Salida is built. And always the river—the Upper Arkansas 
here. 

Came through Howard, 6718 feet elevation, where the 
Postmaster signed at 1 p.m., and I had lunch. Passed the 
Wellsville Hot Springs, but didn’t tarry. 

Several miles before Salida, the little high observation hill 
that we climbed in the dusk three years ago, stood out plainly, 
with the trail to the top. Looking at it, I could almost hear 
the warning rattle of the snake for which we hurriedly left 
the path and raced down hill till well past his snakeship. But 
no observation platform showed on the top to-day. To-night I 
learn that it blew away last year in the winter winds. 

After a while, having plenty of time, I took the wagon 
road. Within sight of the “Station 1 mile” sign the wagon 
road goes off to the left, in order to pass every ranch house it 
can find, before it turns back to Salida. This I didn’t know when 
I saw the 1-mile sign—it is one of the things one learns by ex¬ 
perience when it’s too late for the experience to be of any 
good. 

At one place, cattle on the road caused me to climb into a 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


231 


field. Cattle out through the country here always include one 
bull at least, generally more; this time, two large ones. As 
I was climbing back to the road, after having passed the cattle, 
an anemic-looking youth coming up the road, said: 

“You’re afraid of them, too, aren’t you? I’m desperately 
afraid of cattle.” 

Now, pray, how could I answer properly, standing with one 
foot on the next to the top wire of a barbed wire fence, the 
other foot over the top wire and feeling for the wire below, 
meanwhile clinging to the fence post with one hand and trying 
to keep my skirts clear of the barbs with the other? My 
“I don’t like them” was hardly necessary. A woman doesn’t 
climb four-strand barbed wire fences for the exercise, at the 
end of a day’s 25 mile walk. 

Came to a ranch, out from which a buggy was driving. 

“How far is it to Salida?” 

“Two miles,” said the woman in the buggy. 

“No—a mile and a half, 25 or 30 minutes’ walk,” encouraged 
the man. 

I thought of the “Station 1 mile” sign I had passed three 
quarters of an hour before, and wished I had taken the railroad 
there. 

Salida is much as I remembered it, lying flat at the foot 
of its nearby hills on the right. Because it is in a valley, it has 
the effect of being low, and seemed as if I were coming down 
into the city. And yet it is 7050 feet in elevation. 

Several road miles plus the~23 railroad miles today. Was 
put through a question-and-answer process by a woman I met 
on the street to-night. Was it interest or curiosity? 

As the trains pass me, some of the people in the observa¬ 
tion car wave to me; some of the men raise their hats; most 
that notice me, just stare. One man was very anxious that I 
should see him—perhaps it was some one I know, who heard 
of my walk and recognized me. 

Salida is the junction where the narrow-gauge branch of 
the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad starts for Marshall Pass, 
the main road going through to Tennessee Pass. I have 
spent many half-hours over my map trying to decide which I 
should take. As I remember the Marshall Pass road on the 
train, there were fewer possible stopping places on it than on 
the main line. None too many on either, I fear. Now that I 
am here, I shall take the main line; if I ever walk this way 
again, I can go Marshall-Passing. 


232 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


SALIDA TO BUENA VISTA, COLORADO 

Monday, September 13. 

Had my slip signed this morning in the Salida Post Office 
at 8 a.m. Went up the wagon road from Salida, which practi¬ 
cally follows the railroad, to Brown’s Canyon. 

The Sangre de Cristo Range, through which is Marshall 
Pass, is much nearer. It is said that at certain times, at sun¬ 
set, the range is deep red—hence the name. The Collegiate 
Range, (of which Princeton, Yale, and Harvard are the high¬ 
est peaks) was at first ahead—i.e. to the northwest. 

Seven miles from Salida, the wagon road runs to the left 
over low rises, while the railroad turns to the right through 
Brown’s Canyon, at an elevation of 7324 feet. Here is a sec¬ 
tion bunk-house with two bunks, and a closed-up larger house. 
Two men sat in the shade of a box car and ate lunch out of a 
paper bag. I took the railroad from here to Nathrop, in which 
distance it rises 372 feet. 

Brown’s Canyon is another wonderful canyon, with 
strangely cut weathered and rugged rocks. The river and 
railroad have the canyon to themselves, with no space to spare, 
but shared it with me, for the time being. It is as well worth 
seeing as the Royal Gorge of the Arkansas, but very different. 
This canyon is so narrow that most of its wildness and beauty 
are lost from the train-view one gets of it. The river is very 
narrow, and the canyon walls much closer together than those 
of the Gorge and canyons this far. The railroad is all sharp 
twists, and clings precariously close against the rocks on one 
side of the canyon. 

I felt the survivors of packs of wild animals peering down 
from the high places and out from the low places among the 
wild rocks, at the lone tramper. 

So many and sharp are the turns, that only at the more 
open places can the trains struggling up the steep grade be 
heard for a few minutes, before they pass; but they slide down 
without a sound. 

Where the track was built steeply up from the water on 
one side and close to the rocks on the other, I wondered idly 
to which side would it be the worst to go if a train should come 
—and there, right ahead of me, was an engine. I no longer 
wondered. One jump took me off the track on the side next the 
rocks. The engine was so close that the toots it shrieked at me 
came after it was well past. I walked between the rails no 
more, but on the ends of the ties outside them. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


233 


Where a short bit of track was visible ahead, with a curve 
between me and it, something shot across. While I was asking 
myself if it was a bird or an animal that had leaped the few 
feet of track in sight, around the bend, not twenty feet away, 
loomed the engine; another hurried get-away on my part. 
And in that canyon, one can get away such a very little way ! 

A few miles before Nathrop, the canyon ends. Coming 
from the sharp twists of the canyon, it seemed as if I could 
see far ahead, several miles, I thought, though it could hardly 
have been half a mile. Soon I came to a trestle over the 
Arkansas River. It was high. But being able to see ahead 
so far gave me courage to cross it. By the mileposts on the 
railroad I soon realized that I had deceived myself about the 
distance I could see ahead. 

Then, “Chalk Creek Bridge.” It was short, but higher 
than the one I had just crossed. I hesitated—and of course 
couldn’t cross it. I slid down the bank to the stream, and 
found many others had done the same thing. Took off my 
shoes and stockings and waded across. The water was hardly 
a foot deep anywhere, but was running fast, and the bottom was 
all small, loose stones—and they do hurt bare feet! The 
stones in the creek and along the bank are very light-colored, 
almost white, as is the sand; probably that’s where the stream 
gets its name. Learned later this creek bridge is 100 feet high 
at the centre. 

Nathrop— a few houses, a railroad station, and store and 
post office combined—is on a flat elevation. It’s odd how some 
places give me a sense of being high and others do not. Be¬ 
fore I got to Nathrop, clouds came up and a few drops of rain 
fell. In the store I lunched on a box of crackers and a can of 
evaporated milk. The Post Office department calls them all 
Postmasters, but this gray-haired lady signed as “Postmist¬ 
ress,” at 4:15 p.m. 

A young man in the Nathrop Post Office directed me to keep 
to the wagon road till I passed the Arkansas River Bridge; 
which could be seen from the road; then, when the road crossed 
the railroad again, to take the railroad; that the Arkansas 
River Bridge was long, 110 feet high, and the ties were far 
apart. I know now that he was thinking of going to Nathrop 
from Buena Vista and giving directions that way, instead of 
from Nathrop to Buena Vista. 

After coming down the wagon road for a couple of miles, 
I saw a long bridge to the right where the railroad crossed the 


234 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


river, but it didn’t look very high. Then, when the road crossed 
the railroad, I took the track, all according to directions. 

Quite content I walked down the railroad, till I came to 
a very high trestle, marked “Arkansas River Bridge.” It was 
high! and long! The river below didn’t look very wide from 
the railroad, so I went down the banking, and tried to find 
a place shallow enough to cross. Looking up at the bridge, I 
was glad I had made no attempt to cross it—it certainly seemed 
very far above me. 

The width of the river increased as I came down to it. 
With a long stick from the bank I tried to test the depth of the 
water. The current there is very swift. I got wet nearly 
to my waist; and after having my sounding stick swirled out 
of my hand, went along the bank, making my way along the 
rocks at the edge, trying other places for a crossing. But 
every place I tried had deep holes (my second sounding stick 
was about ten feet long). “Still water runs deep,” perhaps; 
but noisy, rapid, swirling water also runs deep sometimes, 
especially near big rocks. 

After perhaps an hour I gave it up. I was drenched to my 
waist, having done considerable wading round among the 
rocks—sometimes quite unintentionally. Clambered) up the 
bank into a field, and travelled along the river bank to the 
north, where I knew the wagon road must sooner or later cross 
the river. Came within sight of a road half a mile away, 
running in the same general direction as the river; and, after 
careful inspection of the field between for cattle, started toward 
it at a point where it passed a schoolhouse. 

It was dusky by that time. In the field I came upon a 
head with long horns and hide and fragments of a skeleton— 
pleasant find for a river-soaked, shivering mortal at dusk. 
I got to the schoolhouse, climbed a fence, and sat on the steps 
trying to untie my shoes, so as to shake out the pebbles that 
had got in during my sliding down the railroad and river banks. 
The laces were watersoaked, my fingers cold; I couldn’t untie 
them, so gave it up and walked on with the pebbles under 
my soles. 

Held up a man in a buggy to ask the distance to Buena 
Vista. 

“Two or two and a half miles—not far.” He gazed at my 
wet skirts. 

I related my tussle with the Arkansas River, and he re¬ 
frained (thank heaven!) from saying what he thought. Only 
said that the river was much wider than it looked, and far 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


235 


too swift for anyone to cross, even if it wasn’t too deep, which 
it was. 

I tried to hurry, in order to get warm; but skirts soaked 
in mountain-cold river water do not dry quickly even when a 
strong chilly breeze is blowing. I was almost into Buena 
Vista before my feet stopped aching with the cold; even then, 
the pebbles in my shoes didn’t stop hurting. My outside skirt 
got reasonably dry before I got into town. 

Some time after the man and buggy, I met a boy, and 
learned: 

“Nearly two miles to Buena Vista. It’s one mile from the 
bridge, and the bridge is nearly a mile from here.” 

That bridge was the wagon road bridge corresponding to 
the trestle I hadn’t crossed over and couldn’t cross under on the 
river. The buggy man must have been wanting to encourage 
me, and had taken a little off the distance. 

“Any cross dogs on the way?” I asked the boy. 

“No—no” (thoughtfully); “only ours, and he is tied up 
till papa gets home.” 

Papa didn’t get home till 9 or 10 o’clock, and the boy as¬ 
sured me I would be past their house long before that. Unusual 
for anyone to admit that their own dog is cross. 

While we talked, a kind of noise and a shout or two ahead, 
and the boy warned me to look out for the cattle that were com¬ 
ing; cattle would walk over you, and usually there were some 
cross ones in a bunch. He discovered there was a man with 
them, and said if I got out of the road behind a tree somewhere 
I would be safe. I went on to find the tree. The man with the 
cattle was of course on horseback. When the cattle saw me, 
they shied off the road to the left—it was dark by that time. 
I shied off to some trees in an open space on the right. 

At last, the bridge; finally, Buena Vista. The last mile 
was very dark: am quite sure the road went through where 
some cattle were, for I heard movements and odd sounds, and 
saw strange bulks near the road. But by that time the first 
light of the town was near at hand, and these things were not 
so fearsome as they might have been. 

Went into an express office, and the young man told me 
where the hotels and restaurants were. As I was putting down 
my bag and stick on a chair in a restaurant, a little girl about 
eight or ten years old rushed in the door, and crowded between 
me and the table and stepped squarely on my poor, tired, foot 
in its pebble-strewn shoe. I said “Ow!” But she kept on crowd¬ 
ing, looking at my stick and bag. I suppose I was horrid, but I 


236 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


told her not to be so rude; to let me have space enough to sit 
down at the table. Mama was very indignant; said the child 
didn’t mean to hurt my foot. Suppose I’d better be careful— 
some loving and indignant mama may “get square” with me. I 
was not surprised to have mama say that all her rooms were 
full, and was surprised that she gave me any supper. 

The Postmaster signed at 7:35 p.m. I came down street, 
and got a room here. Had to go downstairs to get a pitcher 
of water. 

From Salida up to Buena Vista (7968 feet), to-day, over 24 
miles by railroad. But I came part way by wagon road, and 
then my long wandering by the Arkansas River banks and 
across the fields must have added several miles. 

BUENA VISTA TO GRANITE, COLORADO 

Tuesday , September H. 

Buena Vista to Granite to-day, 17 railroad miles, but came 
mostly by road, which is much longer; perhaps 20 miles. 

Had no lunch; and no supper to-night except crackers and 
cheese, and an orange. 

This morning at Buena Vista, tried to find another res¬ 
taurant, but the only lunchroom I found nearby in town wasn’t 
open. So went again to last-night’s restaurant. 

At Buena Vista, I talked with a man, of about fifty years, 
that I sized up as a “has-been.” I gathered that he believed 
with the retired admiral’s song,— 

“ ’Tis better to have been a ‘Has-been,’ 

Than a ‘Never-was-at-all.’ ” 

He talked well, in a wearied way; claimed to have been a 
Washington, D. C., newspaper man years ago. He, too, was go¬ 
ing to Leadville, and said he would walk up with me. He 
didn’t look able to stand much walking, and I thought he would 
walk a few miles and turn back, or take a train. However, he 
claimed he could walk as well as I; that he had “tramped twenty 
miles a day with a heavy knapsack, in the Philippines.’ 3 

“To make a long story short,” as this Scribe kept saying 
in relating his experiences of the past, we made haste slowly, 
and stopped for frequent rests, which made a short walk long. 

Beautiful scenes in view from the road, and views of the 
mountains. Eight or ten miles west of Buena Vista we got a 
particularly good view of the Collegiate Peaks of the Sagauche 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


237 


Range. The nearer mountain sides were covered with yellow 
and reddish-brown, which Scribe said were wild flowers. Scribe 
refused to walk on the railroad, so we kept the highway—really 
a high way in many places. Masses of rock and separate rocks 
stood out from the mountain sides above the road. Under Ele¬ 
phant Rock we rested; anyway, if that isn’t its name, it should 
be. 

The roadway is often just wide enough for an automobile, 
with many sharp turns and twists and hills and hollows. We 
passed the place where, yesterday I think it was, a car slid 
too near the edge, the bank gave way, and car and occupants 
went over. One was killed, and all hurt more or less. The 
papers reported it as two cars colliding; but both were going 
in the same direction. After the head one had negotiated those 
particularly bad turns, the people in it looked back to see how 
the other car was making it: the other car wasn’t there, having 
gone over the bank. There are many turns where it looks as 
though a car could not possibly make the turn without going 
over. 

A day or two ago, a “light engine” ran into one of the ex¬ 
tra trains, a wild flower excursion train—a pitiful ending to a 
day’s pleasure among the mountain wild flowers. Several 
trainmen were killed and a few other people hurt. 

Our wagon road passed near the 105-foot Colorado-Midland 
Railroad bridge (called “bridges,” not “trestles,” through here) 
on which, a few days ago, a man met a light engine. The man 
jumped off the bridge, striking the sloping sand and rock and 
rolling to the bottom, breaking a rib. The light engines (en¬ 
gines without trains attached,—i. e. carrying a light load, only 
their own tender) just fly down these mountain grades, noise¬ 
lessly. Even the heavy trains make almost no noise on the 
down-grades. 

This begins to remind me of an accident-report column. 

During the afternoon, an automobile passed us, a stout 
man in it waving his hand; an hour or two before dark, we 
passed it, broken down in a lonesome glen. Automobiles are 
few on these mountain roads, and apparently there is good 
reason for it. 

We passed a small enclosure, the fence broken down, and 
inside a tumbled-over stone, on which was roughly engraved: 


238 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

“Emily wife of Francis Mayol 
Born at Claret France 1846 
died Dec. 29, 1870 
Year of unhappy memory 
illegible, remain in her [ illegible ] 

Painless she went to her doom 
But is not this life of gall 
Better than no life at all 
Therefore I weep for thee 
Who wast here below joy to me. 

“F. M.” 

Did it comfort Francis Mayol to slowly hew into the stone 
that inscription? Did he leave the place then? No sign of there 
ever having been a dwelling near. There were a couple of small 
stones, one, evidently the foot stone, with “E. M.” cut into it. 
The trees in the enclosure have grown quite large. 

The Collegiate Peaks, Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, each 
over 14,000 feet high, were much in evidence nearly all day. A 
few small white patches on the high mountains were probably 
snow. Beautiful views all along—mountains, and mountains. 
We climbed steadily all day, up to Granite's 8940-foot elevation. 

Darkness overtook us about 3% miles from Granite. And 
it surely was dark, being cloudy. That doesn't sound far, but 
ZYz miles in mountain canyons after dark, is a long way. We 
scuffed through the sand, and stumbled over the rocks embedded 
in the road; knew when we were going up hill, because we lost 
our breathes; and when we were going down hill, because the 
road fell away from under our feet (a strange sensation in the 
dark—a feeling that the next step might pitch us off into 
space). But no glimmer of lights of Granite could we see. 

At some crossroads, I used up nearly all my matches try¬ 
ing to read the signs, and did make out “EAD” on a very old 
board. That meant Leadville, so we took that road, since 
Granite was on the Leadville road. We crossed under one rail¬ 
road and over a river bridge, and crossed the track of another 
railroad; then began climbing up a narrow roadway that 
arched both up and outward. That must be “Eyebrow Hill,'' 
for the road was shaped just like an eyebrow, with the river 
almost under it, far below, in the eye-socket. It wasn't pleas¬ 
ant to stumble over rocks in the dark, on that narrow line of 
road so high above the river. Then we curved down the last 
end of the eyebrow—but no Granite. 

Suddenly, ahead in the dark, one light, then another. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


239 


“Granite!” we shouted. 

Just then, fluttering rays lighted up the rocks beside us. 
After a moment, we knew it must be an automobile coming, but 
couldn’t guess, by the way the flashes came on the rocks, 
whether it was ahead of us or back of us. Decided the broken- 
down car had got a new lease of life and come on. When the 
noise got loud, we crawled up on some rocks on the up-hill side 
of the road, that the car might have the whole of the narrow 
road. Had we stood on the inside of the roadway, the car 
would have been forced close to the edge above the river; and 
we had no wish to take chances on that edge of the eyebrow 
ourselves. 

It passed; and when its headlights shone on the lights we 
had been thinking of as Granite, we realized they were quite 
close. In a minute, we got to them. One was a campfire, with 
four men at it; the other was at a tent that a couple of other 
men were putting up. None of them knew anything of being 
near Granite; had seen no town the way they had come. One 
of them said that “down the road 1 a way” he had heard a train 
whistle as if for a town. 

We passed on, though disheartened Scribe evidently wanted 
to stay and camp out with the outfit. We sat down on some 
rocks to rest again: a dreadful disappointment to find that 
the lights were not Granite. I myself was unusually tired, for 
falling over the stones in ihe road had made my feet feel much 
ill-used; and I had come to doubt if Scribe had walked two con¬ 
secutive miles since the Philippine campaigns. While he sat des¬ 
pondently, I started down the road 1 to look for Granite lights. 
I didn’t go but a few feet, it was so very dark. We discussed 
the chances of our having passed Granite (just as the Tramper 
and I had feared we had passed Canon City days before). 
Then said I: 

“Let’s make a bargain. We’ll walk down the road for ten 
minutes, and if Granite doesn’t appear, I’ll be willing to come 
back to the camp up here that we just passed.” 

Another match was sacrificed to see the time, and on we 
went. Before ten minutes were up, ahead, nestling in a little 
hollow of the blackness, Granite’s lights gleamed. 

The hotel was awake, and open. Yes; they had rooms. 
But not a bite would they give us, even when I said we hadn’t 
had anything to eat since morning. 

“There’s a store next door; you can buy things there,” said 
the woman. 


240 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

I asked if we could have milk, or tea, or cold coffee ta 
drink with what we bought. But— 

“Nothing left; dinner has been over an hour.” 

Scribe went over to the store and came back with some 
crackers and cheese and two oranges. He wouldn't take any¬ 
thing himself but one of the oranges. I hope for his tired sake, 
the store furnished him something more stimulating than he 
brought back. 

On the road, after darkness came, he had said that the 
hotel people would think it was a case of broken-down auto¬ 
mobile. When we got into the hotel and couldn't get supper, 
Scribe implied that that was the case. Much good it did him: 
they evidently don’t feed hungry autoists any more than hungry 
tramps. 

Anyway, here I am, with a pitcher of drinking water (they 
did let me have water) up in my room, gobbling cheese and 
crackers and drinking water—lots of it. The hotel man was 
very kindly spoken when he brought me upstairs, after stowing 
Scribe away somewhere down below. Perhaps he wanted to 
soften the woman’s curt refusal of eats. 

One day recently, in a restaurant, after I had eaten my 
breakfast, the woman grumbled about serving breakfast so 
late—it was about 8:30; said she was “too busy to do it.” There 
were other people getting breakfast, too. When I got tired of 
her grumble, I asked if she was too busy to take the money to 
pay for it. She wasn’t. Across the table from me was a man 
who, later in the day, told me it was “rich” to hear me ask her. 
He says that the women don’t intend to be mean about things, 
but it is “their natural way.” 

GRANITE TO LEADVILLE, COLORADO 

Wednesday , September 15. 

From Granite to Leadville, by way of Malta, 19 miles by 
railroad. 

After breakfast, went into the Post Office, where the post¬ 
master, a woman, signed at 7:55 a.m. I mentioned to her having 
walked in last night with a man who told the hotel people his 
car had broken down: didn’t want his story to give them the 
idea I had been riding any of the way. In a place of so few 
houses as Granite, everyone hears everything. 

My yesterday’s walking companion came into the post 
office while I was there; but he said nothing of walking the 
rest of the way to Leadville. 





m 

. 


WB& 




mmm 


i 


. 

< tiMBBawm 


5saBHWBr v 

pl*>' 


NEAR LEADVILLE — THE ONLY SNOW ON THE WALK 

“The snow made the air crisp” 



















TO SAN FRANCISCO 


241 


After leaving the canyon in which Granite is, most of the 
way to Leadville is more valley than canyon. Some farm-houses 
along the way to Malta. Stopped a girl in a team, who sold me 
some bread and milk. 

Came to a little schoolhouse, with a tiny porch, and two 
windows in each side of the building. It was recess time, the 
six pupils playing in the yard, while the young teacher was 
chopping wood. I went in to talk to her. The school (Hay¬ 
den School, I think the name is,) has thirteen desks and a 
short bench for extra pupils. It started last summer with 
fifteen pupils. It is this teacher’s first school; she graduated 
from the eighth grade five months ago, took the teacher’s ex¬ 
amination, and was given this school, which used to be her 
sister’s, before sister had a nervous breakdown. She struggled 
bravely with her shyness—helped out by her pride in being a 
teacher. 

On up to Malta, where the Postmaster’s wife signed at 
1:30 p.m., and let me have lunch, for which she refused to 
take pay because the lunch was cold. On her information that 
“Indeed you would have to pay 35 cents at the section house 
for lunch,” I tried to leave the money but she insisted on re¬ 
turning it. Before going to the Post Office, I had tried to buy 
a lunch at the section house, but was refused because it was 
past lunch time. 

While I was at Malta, a thunder and hail storm came up, 
which turned to a wet snow and then to sleet. Mrs. Postmaster 
said it was the worst thunder and lightning they have had this 
summer, and that they rarely had any so late in the year. It 
didn’t seen to me bad at all, thinking of the Middle West storms 
and those of the White Mountains. 

Mrs. Postmaster was very sure there was no place in Malta 
where a person could get to stay over night; so, after waiting 
till 3:40 for the snow to stop, I started out. It was still sleeting 
but soon stopped. The snow was very cold, and made my toes 
ache, and soaked my feet. Low shoes without gaiters have some 
disadvantages. 

At Malta and coming up to Leadville, I should have been 
able to see Mount Massive, and also the smoke of Leadville 
smelters. But the clouds hung low, making a dull gray sky, and 
I saw nothing of either. 

From Malta, took the railroad for about l 1 /* miles, and then 
the boulevard into Leadville. This boulevard leads back to 
Mount Massive. iSome cows drifting along the road ahead of 
me, caused me to take the railroad for a short distance, but 


242 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


soon I went back to the wagon road. I had lost the Arkansas 
River before getting to Malta. 

Got to Leadville Post Office, where the Postmaster signed 
that I “Reported at 5:15 p.m. in a snow storm.” It was snow¬ 
ing again. Another very pleasant Postmaster; the larger the 
city and more busy the Postmaster, the more time he has to give 
to a tramp like me. 

I have walked up, up, to Leadville, 10,200 feet elevation. 
Long ago, I was thrilled by looking from a train at night out 
over the fiery smoke and furnaces of the city. To-day, in spite 
of the falling snow, I was excited at walking up and into this 
city of mines. It used to be called “California Gulch” (syn¬ 
onym for untold riches), and was a rich gold camp. Then it 
became a wonderful silver city, on the discovery of the silver 
mines. Now, it claims both metals as its own. 

LEADVILLE TO MINTURN, COLORADO, 
via TENNESSEE PASS 

Thursday, September 16. 

Got breakfast early, and left Leadville at 7 a.m. The 
sidewalks had a little covering of crisp, frosty snow. The 
morning was perfect, the air fine. Sunshine; no wind; not 
warm, and not too cold for walking. The snow made the air 
crisp, too. 

Had some little bother finding the right road out of town,— 
if it was the right one I got. The road winds down hill 
out of the city. About a mile and a half out, saw the steel 
towers of an electric transmission line; don’t remember having 
seen any towers like these since the last day’s walk in Illinois. 
Here and there on the road is a ranch and house. From one 
a flock of sheep was just coming out as I passed. 

A few miles from Leadville, by one of the Arkansas River 
bridges, some men with prairie schooners had camped. In 
several places, the road ran through groves of small spruces. 

After the fences on the road that runs past Brown’s Dairy 
Ranch, (where there were three dogs, two of which came out 
and barked at me, and a woman who came out and spoke), for 
a mile or more the road is unfenced. Looking back, I saw some¬ 
thing coming—two somethings, one of which travelled like a 
loose horse. How I did hurry to get across the unfenced valley 
road before they should overtake me. The road passed close to a 
grove, upon reaching which I felt safer. 

After several miles, “they” overtook me. It was a ranch- 


■ ■ 

?L <dLju> 


/ < il><L4 /fW'i^vy^* <#Ucf 
AjlM.4aA~xA clA- Q~0?<jec 

is A l 

1 f> J?k /$ Cte€4t*&f{ £hn 

• ' ■ ><-* ......../ ..." v. ’ 


mrnsmm 


(L&fjyUo&e itmi 


TENNESSEE PASS POSTMARK 
“The Post Office is in the station, the railroad goes through 
the mountain in a long tunnel. I took a trail that 
crossed the Pass far higher” 










TO SAN FRANCISCO 


243 


man that had come down from Oregon with sheep. He was 
riding a white horse, and had a pack horse following; a dog, 
too, of course, a “sheepdog.” All the dogs through this country 
are called “sheepdogs.” Some look like our collies at home; 
some like shepherd dogs, with noses not so pointed as collies; 
others like a mixture of collie and Irish terrier, all good-natured 
dogs to meet. 

The horse that the fat, blonde young rancher was riding 
walked about as fast as I did, and we travelled together for 
several miles, to within a mile of Tennessee Pass station, when I 
took the railroad. Soon after, another man on horseback met 
him, and they stopped for a confab; while the pack-horse, sus¬ 
picious of the approaching man, made a long detour up the 
side of the mountain. The sheepman gave me directions for the 
other side of Tennessee Pass: to take the “old road,” which 
led through the bottom of the valley, past a sheep ranch. Says 
sheep dogs are never cross, but always bark at passers-by, 
merely to notify the men that some one is around. 

The man at Tennessee Pass Post Office, which is in the 
railroad station, signed for me at 10 a.m.: “Weather clear, and 
warm. Altitude 10242 feet.” 

The railroad goes through the mountain top by way of a 
long tunnel. Not for me! I crossed the track, took the trail 
up to the top of Tennessee Pass; and from there, the wagon 
road over the pass and down the West side. 

Coming up the East side of the Pass, the sides of the 
higher hills were still whitish with snow. No snow on either 
side of the Pass itself, or on the top. 

On the West side, all was brown. At the top of the Pass, 
I fairly gloated over the fact that I was there, and had walked 
there. Years ago, on my first trip across the Rockies by train, 
I got out at the station and gloried in being so high up in the 
mountains. And now, I was above the railroad pass, and had 
come there by my own self, on my own two feet! Not only 
were the mountains around me, but I was crossing over them. 
Mt. Massive (or what I took for it), the highest peak in Colo¬ 
rado, I think, being one of some fourteen peaks of over 14,400 
feet, was in sight. 

Then I began to unclimb the Rocky Mountains. 

The West side of the Pass is a long, steep down hill. Met 
several prairie schooners coming up, and was able to answer 
the drivers’ questions about the east side of the pass. The 
steep west side of the Pass had told on their teams, and they 
were glad to find the uphill was nearly ended. I felt proud 


244 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


to be the directer, instead of the directed. Fortunately for the 
men, I know more about the road over which I was directing 
them, than most of my directers do. 

Passed a number of abandoned charcoal ovens. 

Left the new automobile road on which I was travelling 
and took an old road (advice of sheep man). The old road 
ran down through the deserted village of Mitchell—a village 
of apparently unoccupied log and board houses. One or two 
had curtains. In the back yard of one house was a man, and 
another was unloading lumber from a wagon and putting it on 
a flat car on a railroad track that ran along there. Near Mit¬ 
chell are more old charcoal ovens. And a little beyond, on a 
mound on a little hilltop, is one grave, fenced with wooden pick¬ 
ets. 

After a time, I crossed up to the new auto road again, 
only to regret it, as it seemed to take a long way around the side 
of the hills to get down to the farther side of the valley. The 
only traveller I met on this road was a snake. I left the 
road, and, after several attempts, started down hill toward the 
old road. Picked up a trail that came out on the old road. 

The new road winds along the side of the hill; the old, 
through the bottom of the valley. They come together in the 
valley, passing a little lake where the D. & R. G. Railroad has 
an icehouse. Part of the new road is built along an abandoned 
railroad bed. When I saw that line across the valley, I knew 
it must be a railroad, and yet it seemed the continuation of the 
auto road from the hill. One can never mistake a railroad 
bed, even if it has become a wagon road; no wagon road ever 
runs in an even line like a railroad. 

At Pando, the Postmaster wrote, at 2:10 p.m.: “Weather 
partly cloudy, calm, 60 degrees above zero.” I left Pando by 
the wagon road, but crossed to the railroad through a field. 

At Red Cliff, where my slip was signed at 4 p.m., the rail¬ 
road and road make a sharp curve to the left. Took the rail¬ 
road out—when I found it! The town is guarded on that side 
by large reddish cliffs, and is reached by Red Cliff Canyon. 
It is now the Eagle River that I am following, instead of the 
Arkansas River. All the way down the canyon, the views 
back and ahead are wonderful. 

About three miles before Minturn, the wagon road crosses 
the railroad, and I took the wagon road. It runs winding 
through the valley, through low bushes, down to Minturn’s 
7825 foot elevation. 

For long stretches on the road, there was an odd smell. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


245 


Something like boxwood hedges, but not so pungent, and sort 
of sickening. I think it was some low bushes that grew in the 
fields* 

The high rocks of the canyon walls were gray and water- 
worn in many places, instead of reddish: rugged, and suggestive 
of thousands of years of exposure to weather. There is no 
use trying to describe these canyons and rocks—it would be too 
much like a railroad guide book. Mining is carried on up and 
down the sides of the cliffs, which in places are two thousand 
feet high. 

Just as I got into Minturn, I passed two women; the young¬ 
er one spoke, and I walked on with them. As we passed their 
house, the younger one called to her husband; then she went 
with me to the hotel, and took me out through the dining room 
into the kitchen. I noticed while at dinner that that is the 
proper procedure; everyone that came into the hotel went 
through the dining room into the kitchen to say “hello” to the 
hotel people. There was no vacant room, but finally one of the 
little boys let them give me his attic room; at least, they took 
me up to it, and the poor child couldn’t help himself. 

While I was at supper, my wayside friend’s husband came 
in and asked me to go to their house in the evening; which I 
did. I like them both. They were even more emphatic than I 
was in condemning the cooking through the country. I learn 
that insomnia is a common complaint in the mountains. These 
people discussed a possible trip to some as yet unvisited part of 
Utah or Colorado; the man said he had always wanted to take 
such a trip. 

To-day, mountains and mountains, and high cliffs near at 
hand, on both sides, in places seemingly perpendicular. Mines 
are being worked in these steep cliffs. For a moment, before 
Minturn, thought I saw the Mount of the Holy Cross; but looked 
at something else, and then it had disappeared. Just before Min¬ 
turn, a rock formation called “The Lioness” overlooks the Can¬ 
yon. 

The way I walked from Leadville to Minturn they say is 
about 36 miles. The wagon road is longer than the railroad, 
though it doesn’t go back to Malta, as does the railroad. I 
took the long way out of Leadville, it seems; and then, too, I 
came over the top of the Pass. 

Here it is after the middle of September, and I am only 
just across the summit of the Rockies. Ahead of me are all 
the low ranges of Utah and Nevada, not to think of the Sierras 


246 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

and the Coast Range, besides the three Deserts,—all of which 
must be crossed before snow. 

MINTURN TO EAGLE, COLORADO 

Friday , Septemebr 17. 

From Minturn (7825 feet altitude), through Avon, Ed¬ 
wards, Wolcott (6976 feet), to Eagle (6598 feet). That is 27 
railroad miles.; but as I came by wagon road part of the way, 
with devious crossings back and forth and turns, must have 
made at least 30 miles. 

The Minturn Postmaster (a woman) signed at 8 a.m. Min¬ 
turn has a woman Judge, too. I wonder how Minturn really 
likes it. 

Left there at 8:30 a.m. Down the canyon of the Eagle 
River, which is wider than yesterday’s canyons, and has pros¬ 
perous ranches through it. The green of the alfalfa and 
sweet clover brought out the yellows and reddish-browns of the 
hills. At first after leaving Minturn, the tops of the hills 
(probably I should say mountains) towered far above the road. 
At one place a really musical bell sounded at the top of a hill 
far above me. After watching the fir trees along the top for 
a time, looking for specks that might be the sheep, I saw, not 
far from the road, at the foot instead of the top of the hill, 
a small flock of sheep. It was the echo of the bell, at the hill¬ 
top. 

At Avon, I talked to two men who were building a “cattle 
chute” near the railroad, from which to load cattle on to the 
cars; were building for themselves, not for the railroad (they 
were very emphatic about this). The Avon Postmaster (a 
woman) signed at 10:35 a.m. There, as at many of these 
mountain places, the post office is in the depot. 

Had dinner at Edwards, at house next above the log post 
office, lady refused to take any pay. The assistant postmaster 
signed at 12:30 p.m. 

Edwards appeared to be a town of perhaps nine or ten 
houses, the entrance to a large ranch being there. 

At dinner, I mentioned having met a bunch of half a dozen 
or more loose horses on the wagon road. I did not mention 
that I passed them with a barbed wire fence between us, me in 
the field and the horses on the road, which I had obligingly left 
for them. A man at the house said that horses generally were 
to be seen on the roads about this time of year; they left the 
high pastures and wandered down nearer the ranches. 



MY FIRST TUNNEL —EAGLE RIVER CANYON 
“Rugged, suggestive of thousands of years of exposure to 

the weather” 




TO SAN FRANCISCO 


247 


At Wolcott some picturesque cowboys were just finishing 
driving a bunch of cattle into the railroad stock yards. I wasn’t 
very close, and did not hasten any to get closer. The red coats 
and yellow belts of two of the cowboys showed up well as they 
rode out of the yards. This is “an outfitting point for game 
fields north”, and has a hotel. The woman postmaster signed 
at 3:30 p.m. 

Above Wolcott, the Eagle River, as well as the valley, wid¬ 
ens out. 

One little settlement I passed to-day consisted of two log 
houses, three wooden houses,—all one-storey of course,—a rail¬ 
road siding, and a big rock. 

The Eagle Postmaster (a man this time) signed at 6:55 
p.m. Had supper in the only restaurant I saw. A woman and 
children I met by the wagon road bridge over the river in the 
dusk directed me here to stay. 

From Edwards to Eagle, I took the railroad, except for a 
few miles. At places the high cliffs were gray; at others, 
reddish brown. High at one point ^bout five miles before 
Eagle, stood the pedestal for a statue, standing out on a little 
point of the mountain by itself. How long has it been poised 
there, I wonder. 

Just as yesterday the sun shone on the high canyon sides 
long after I could see it no more from where I was in the can¬ 
yon, so to-day the sun lighted up the reddish brown rocks on 
the left. The rocks on the right, on which it was not shining, 
seemed brighter in color than the left-hand ones, just as in the 
Canyon of the Yellowstone the brilliant hues come out more 
clearly after the sunshine leaves the canyon. 

After many curves, the railroad, two miles from Eagle, sets 
out in a straight line down hill for this town. The wagon road, 
three quarters of a mile from Eagle, obligingly ran up close 
to the railroad, and I took it to avoid the Eagle River bridge. 

I 

i 

EAGLE TO GLENWOOD SPRINGS, COLORADO 

Saturday , September* 18. 

This morning, got to the restaurant before it was open. 
Went into the Post Office and sent my bag on by parcel post, 
unloading my revolver and putting it into the bag. I expected 
to have a long day’s walk, and wanted to cut down weight. 
Had breakfast, and left Eagle at 7:15 a.m. 

From Eagle to Gypsum, by roundabout wagon road, along 


248 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


hillsides. A little chilly at first; later, pretty warm. Ranches 
in the valley. 

Gypsum (at 6325 feet elevation) is very much in a valley. 

There assistant postmaster signed at 9:25 a.m., and I 
bought two oranges. Large deposits of gypsum near by; hence 
the name. Gypsum unlike many of the little Western towns 
that I have passed through, doesn’t look as if its best days 
were long past. Instead of broken sidewalks, new ones are 
being built. 

Took the railroad from Gypsum to Shoshone, where I had 
dinner at the depot. One tunnel, not long, before Shoshone. 

Between Gypsum and Shoshone are Lava beds, a rough 
blackish surface, the remains of some volcano of long ago, the 
lava having spread over about a mile of this valley. 

Kept to the railroad from Shoshone to near Glenwood 
Springs. Just beyond Shoshone (which has an altitude of 
6119 feet), is the second tunnel—shorter than the first. To-day 
was my first tunnel experience,—my first and second tunnels, 
rather, both in one day. Long ago I decided what I should do 
if 1 had to go through a tunnel and a train came: lie down at 
the side of the track, close up against the tunnel wall, my head 
toward the oncoming train, and stay there while it went by. 
I know I simply couldn’t stand up; and even if I sat down, I 
might, by some nervous impulse, lean forward and get hit, or 
caught by the rush of wind. 

These two tunnels were not so bad; they were short and 
straight. Remembering the Tramper’s scheme, I lit some little 
dry sticks before entering the first one, but couldn’t keep them 
alight on account of the draught through the tunnel. 

Beyond Gypsum, the Eagle River runs into the Grand 
River. At one place, the $12,000,000 plant of the Colorado 
Power Company is prominent. 

Wondrous rocks—miles of them towering above the river, 
the Canyon of the Grand River. “The immense enclosing 
walls, 2500 feet in height, are tilted, straited, and cut in fan¬ 
tastic configurations,” yet that doesn’t come near describing 
them—and I certainly am unable to do so. The only way to 
see these canyons is to go through them slowly. The whole 
canyon is spectacular. At one point, ahead, high up over the 
rocks of the canyon, I could see a mountain side, green ana 
brown and yellow and reddish. Farther on, most of the encir¬ 
cling hillsides were covered with color. At “The Portals,” the 
river and railroad squeeze through together. In some places 
the rocks are towering bare; in other, dotted with dark green 



NEAR GLENWOOD SPRINGS 
Wondrous rocks — miles of them 





















TO SAN FRANCISCO 


249 


spots—the fir trees. The gray of rocks is broken by horizontal 
light reddish brown lines. 

I have been through these canyons on the train in summer, 
when such places are supposed to be at their best; and in winter, 
when the slopes are white, though the high steep rocks refuse 
to hold the snow and look much as in summer. But September 
is certainly the time to come through here. The mountain 
sides, where there is any vegetation, have the beautiful yellow, 
orange, and reddish brown autumn colors on the bushes. I have 
discovered that the colors are not wild flowers, but principally 
low bushes growing on the mountain sides. 

At Shoshone, I was told that there is a bridge from the rail¬ 
road to the wagon road, across the river about 2 Y 2 miles before 
Glenwood Springs, and that the tunnel just before the latter 
place is “a mile long”. I was looking for a wagon bridge, so 
passed the bridge without seeing it. When I g'ot to the tunnel, 
I met a man coming out. He said the tunnel was a long one, 
and very dark; that you had to feel for the rails with your 
foot, couldn’t see them. He offered to go back with me and 
*‘make a light” through for me. At first I said no, but he 
said it was seven miles back to go round by the way of the 
bridge and only five minutes* walk through the tunnel, and 
I felt inclined to take the tunnel. But after talking to him a few 
minutes, I decided not to. Told him I was going back to the 
bridge to cross. He wanted to know if I was afraid of him; 
hope my emphatic “Afraid? No!” disabused his mind of the 
idea. But I didn’t like the man; and never again will I send 
my little 22Wcompanion on by mail. He said he was a German, 
and lived in the canyon. 

Over a mile back from the tunnel, I saw the top of the 
bridge. It is in a hollow back of a house; only a footbridge, 
about four feet wide, strung on wire cables across the river, but 
with stout rails on both sides. The river is rather wide here, 
so the footbridge is long. Had to climb a gate and go through 
an alfalfa field to get to it. Two dogs barked at me from the 
field back of the house, but a woman was out there and called to 
them. I think this is the first time on the whole trip that a 
woman has called in a dog that barked at me. 

Crossed the bridge, and was met by another dog, but a man 
nearby told him to keep quiet. Then up an old, steep road over 
a hill, and on to the wagon road. Kept the wagon road over the 
bill, past a number of camps and tents, where a couple more 
dogs barked, and one growled fiercely. Three men at once told 
that dog to keep quiet, which made me wonder if he was a stray, 


250 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

while a fourth man assured me he wouldn’t bite. This wagon 
road through the camp was not, I think, the main road, but only 
one that had been worn by camp use. There were many tents 
with men sitting around. 

In front of one tent near the outskirts of the camp, a 
middle-aged man was sitting alert, it seemed to me. When I saw 
his attitude, the thought “Another convicts camp” came; almost 
said it out loud. The men loafing round in small groups, the 
tents and dogs, had not in the least suggested it to me, until 
I saw that man, alert-appearing even while he leaned back at 
ease. Here in Glenwood Springs to-night they tell me it is a 
convict camp. 

At the foot of the Glenwood-Springs side of the camp hill 
was a sign, “Glenwood-Springs, 2.3 miles.” That meant Dark¬ 
ness catching me, for it was six o’clock before I turned back at 
the tunnel. It got duskier rapidly, so I didn’t realize when the 
camp road ran into the main road—if they are different roads. 
Between the Camp Hill and Glenwood Springs was a road en¬ 
gine, where the new road was being made, and some abominable 
stoney walking. I blundered over that piece of roadway, and it 
got darker. How I did rush! The river to the left and the 
spookey bank up to the right. 

After a time the first friendly lights came into view, and 
how friendly electric lights in the distance can appear, only one 
on a trip like this—and nervous in the dark like me—can know. 

Then a heavy team overtook me. I had heard it back of me 
for some time. It seemed to be coming fast, and I hoped it 
wouldn’t be too dark for the driver to see that some one was 
walking along the road. The man in the team said he was just 
getting ready to come to town when I passed through the camp 
and had expected to overtake me long before he did. Of course, 
I explained that I couldn’t ride, and after a few minutes’ talk 
he drove on, almost immediately out of sight and soon out of 
hearing,—and I was alone again on the dark road. But oh, 
those blessed lights ahead! 

When I did get here to Glenwood Springs, I wandered 
round town by the baths, and thought it must be the wrong 
road ( it was the right one, though). Crossed the footbridge 
over the river into Glenwood Springs. After getting a room 
and cleaned up, went to the Post Office and got my mail at a 
side door (Post Office was closed), but the man didn’t sign my 
slip; will have to wait till the morning for that. Got my little 
bag I mailed this morning. Hereafter, it stays with me— 
anyway my revolver stays. 



THE ROAD OUT OF GLENWOOD SPRINGS 
I recrossed the river and started down the wide sweep of 

the valley” 









TO SAN FRANCISCO 


251 


Eagle to Glenwood Springs is 31 railroad miles; less the 
one I didn’t walk from the beginning of the tunnel, leaves 30. 
Then the couple of extra wagon road miles between Eagle and 
Gypsum, and the four extra that I added by turning back at the 
tunnel for a mile and then taking the road, makes at least 30 
miles I did to-day. Glenwood Springs seems low, although the 
elevation is 5758 feet. 

GLENWOOD SPRINGS TO RIFLE, COLORADO 

Sunday , September 19. 

This morning, clerk in the Post office signed my slip, 
neither the postmaster nor his assistant being in; but the clerk 
was doubtful if he ought to do it. 

I would have liked to stay, and play in the fifty thousand 
square feet of swimming pool,—a winter pool as well as a sum¬ 
mer pool, being kept at a temperature of 90 degrees the year 
round. And see the vapor cave, too, which is heated to about 
120 degrees by springs coming out of the rocks. 

Instead, I recrossed the river and started down the wide 
sweep of the valley. Is it really very wide, or is the width 
merely an apparent one, on account of the canyons through 
which I have been walking? It seemed wide, anyway. Many 
ranches through the valleys to-day. Didn’t stop at New Castle 
or Silt, and Ives is only a siding. 

Three miles before reaching New Castle, stopped at a house 
and had a lunch of bread and honey and milk. Just before 
that, I had knocked five apples off a tree; two fell inside the 
fence, and so were taboo to me. 

Man at the house where I had lunch advised me to go 
north, nearer, or by way of, Meeker, instead of following the 
Denver & Rio Grande Railroad. Says he has driven over the 
desert, and there are places twenty miles apart without a 
place to get water; that twenty miles of desert without water 
is very bad, and the desert thirst is something dreadful. 

One year, the Convict Camp was near this man’s ranch; and 
on the third of July he told the men, as they passed his place 
goii g to their road-work, to come into his orchard the next 
day (which would be the Fourth of July) and pick all the 
cherries they could eat. He thought it would be much nicer 
for them to have the cherries that way than for him to send 
over a lot to the camp and have the cherries doled out to them at 
dinner. But the man in charge would not let them come; told 
him he wouldn’t have a tree left standing if they did. Where- 


252 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


upon he “said things’’ to the man in charge,—which, however, 
didn’t get the convicts their feed of cherries. One of the con¬ 
victs was a big negro, who used to catch fish in the river and 
bring the ranchman. One day, the negro tried to escape, and was 
shot in the water as he swam across the river, and drowned. 

Near Newcastle, is the “Smoking Mountain”,—which smokes 
and smokes. A coal bed has been on fire there for nearly twenty 
years. 

There were some fine sunset clouds to-night, and the set¬ 
ting sun colored the bare, sandy rock faces purplish and pink¬ 
ish,—soft, misty shades. 

If there hadn’t been a moon, the last couple of miles I would 
have walked in the dark. A long curve round a hill brought 
me to Rifle about 7:15 p.m., and glad I was to get here, after 
27 railroad miles to-day. 

This is more of a hotel than I have seen for some time. 
At Glenwood Springs I didn’t go to a hotel,—fell into the first 
place that looked stopable at—a rooming house run by a nice 
elderly couple. 

Here, the dining room has quite a bill of fare; but the proof 
of its being a real hotel is that the clerk carried my little black 
bag upstairs without apparently glancing at the funny little 
dusty thing. Of course, one can’t expect bell-hoys, even in as 
really a hotel as this is, up here among the rocks. 

There is a “hydrant” in the hall. Any kind of faucet or 
arrangement for drawing water is called a “hydrant” in this 
country. 

Glenwood Springs to Rifle is 27 miles by railroad, and I 
came partly by wagon road. 

RIFLE TO DE BECQUE, COLORADO 

Monday September 20. 

Rifle to DeBecque, through Grand Valley: 30 railroad 
miles. The beautiful colors on the hills continue, set off by the 
bare, sandy rocks below them. 

Grand Valley I suppose looked grand to the original set¬ 
tlers, if they came through the mountains in the early spring 
and found it green. But, except where the trees are, too much 
alkali shows up through the earth. It is a flat little valley, the 
mesa guarding it on the north. Had lunch there, and the Post¬ 
master signed at 1:30 p.m. 

Rulison has a double-arch bridge across the river; one 
closed-up store, and one doing business. I went into the store, 




LAVA BEDS —BETWEEN GYPSUM AND SHOSHONE 
“The remains of a volcano of long ago” 


NEAR DE BECQUE 











TO SAN FRANCISCO 


253 


and had a bottle of “pop”. Several men drifted in, from teams 
standing near. Oh, well, a stranger woman is unusual, I sup¬ 
pose—especially on foot. These “towns” that consist of a store 
and perhaps a house or two, must draw their business from the 
ranches scattered through the valleys and from the miners that 
come down out of the hills. 

Morris is a deserted railroad station, some windows out and 
some boarded up; no door. Back from the station, on the wagon 
road, one house crouches low, and another, empty, stands dreari¬ 
ly in the sun. 

Postmaster at DeBecque signed at 6:30 p.m. 

I am not rushing downward so fast; to-day, from Rifle's 
53:10 feet to DeBecque’s 4845 feet. 

DE BECQUE TO GRAND JUNCTION, COLORADO 

Tuesday , September 21. 

De Becque to Grand Junction is 33 miles by railroad; 
came nearly all the way by that road. 

Above Cameo is quite a long tunnel, with a curve in it. 
Lighted a stick and walked through, without any fretting. 
“How brave I is getting to be!” 

Had dinner at Cameo—the hottest place I’ve seen yet. 
The assistant postmaster signed there at 1:45. It is a coal¬ 
mining town, on a flat bench on the hillside, the high walls 
of the canyon back of it. When I started on after dinner, 
and got back to the railroad, the railroad seemed cool by com¬ 
parison—enough said. 

Above Palisade the peach orchards begin. I picked and 
ate a few off some trees in an orchard near an empty house. 
The ground was covered with rotting fruit. The first I 
took, I felt rather like a thief, but soon recovered and picked 
out the large ripe ones. Am told that peaches are so plenti¬ 
ful, and have been for a few years, that many of those who 
planted peach orchards have given up their places and gone 
away; couldn't make the orchards pay taxes and other ex¬ 
penses. Hence the loaded trees and ground covered with fruit 
—big, ripe, luscious peaches. It is said that the land here in 
ten years rose from $10 an acre to $3000 an acre. 

Stopped at Palisade long enough to get a drink of water 
in the depot. Didn’t stop at Clifton. Many alfalfa fields 
along the way. Golden sunset clouds to-night. 

Didn’t get here to Grancl Junction till after 7 p.m., but it 
was moonlight. Where a street crossed the railroad, I stop- 


254 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


ped to ask a man for the Post Office, and out of the railroad 
tracks behind me glided two trampish figures on their way to 
the freight cars. 

Went to the Post Office, but no P. 0. order was there. 
My money just held out to get here. Some days ago, I sent 
a postal that I would telegraph for money, but I figured my 
order might be at Grand Junction, and didn’t telegraph. Got 
a room at a semi-hotel that looked rather nice, and am trust¬ 
ing the woman won’t ask me to pay to-night. 

Have certainly done the hustle act from Leadville to here, 
and am not surprised that a money order isn’t awaiting me. 

The Gunnison and Grand Rivers join here at an elevation 
of about 4580 feet. Had I taken the route over the mountains 
instead of through the gorges, I would have followed the Gun¬ 
nison to Grand Junction. 

GRAND JUNCTION, COLORADO 

Wednesday, September 22. 

Fine day; cool breeze. Sun is warm outdoors, but it is 
rather chilly here in my room, even with my sweater on. A 
good walking day, but the rest will probably be good for my 
feet. 

The Postmaster here signed at 3 p.m. On my second 
trip to the Post Office, I got one letter, from Boston. 

I telegraphed for $25.00, sending the message “Collect,” 
with an under-breath ejaculation, “May it come before my 
landlady duns me!” A little later, went to office and got 
the reply. Seized it, with visions of money. Reply said, 
“Money mailed twentieth.” That isn’t likely to get here till 
the 24th; so I telegraphed back, “No money, nothing to eat, 
send ten dollars by telegraph.” 

Last night I dreamed that I found a dime in my purse. 
Thinking of the dream, I looked, and there, in with the papers* 
was a nickel and a dime. I must have seen that dime yesterday 
and forgotten it. Took my 1© cents and got hot cakes and 
coffee, but was hungry-just because I couldn’t have more 
just then, I suppose. 

This afternoon, pawned my revolver for $2.50, for which 
I shall have to pay $3.00 when I redeem it. My first visit 
to an Uncle, felt as if it were quite an Adventure. Got a 
square meal on the proceeds—perhaps a little more than 
square, heaping square, I guess. 

This evening, went into telegraph office just before it 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


255 


closed, and found a telegram for $10.00. Did necessary shop¬ 
ping, had another square meal, and took a muskmelon, peaches, 
and candy up to my room—a regular spree! Nearly $6.00 of 
that ten is already gone. How money do go! The Postmaster 
says that one can collect post office money orders at any 
money order office in the United States—don’t have to collect 
order at the office it is sent to. So I gave Thompsons, Utah, 
as the forwarding address, and shall collect mine there if it 
overtakes me—and it better had. Have redeemed my revol¬ 
ver and paid my room rent, and once more feel independent. 
Hope, though, that money order gets to Thompsons by the time 
I do! ; * 

Got another letter this afternoon, which was forwarded 
from the other side of the Rockies. It says I must be glad to 
get out of the level country; but it overtakes me just as I get 
back to the next level country, even though Grand Junction is 
4573 feet elevation. I surely did climb the mountains on the 
east side and unclimb them on the west side faster than I ex¬ 
pected to. 

According to the map, Utah is mountainous. I always 
thought of it as mostly desert. Seems strange that I should 
be going to walk across it. Why should the unreality of the 
walk impress itself on me now, when I have got more than 
half way, I wonder. 

Altogether, there seems to be only about 300 miles of 
desert to cross. Hope I don’t get into a desert sandstorm, 
now that I’ve escaped the Kansas Hot Winds and the catas- 
trophies promised me in the Rockies. I still have the two to me 
least-known States of my route to cross, Nevada and Utah. 

Some days ago, in talking to a doctor, I told him I was 
starving for want of properly cooked food; that the only places 
I got food that I could enjoy eating was the large plates. 
Shortly after, he asked me how my muscles stood the tramp, 
and I told him that I had lost all my muscle—which is the 
truth. He said that was just what he wanted to know; that I 
was, to a certain degree, starving; that even with the constant 
walking, if persons were improperly nourished, they would 
lose all their muscle, just as I said I had. I felt rather re¬ 
lieved at his explanation, for it has been making me rather un¬ 
easy that, instead of my muscles hardening, they had apparently 
disappeared entirely. 

It seems to puzzle people as to whether I am doing penance 
for some sin, or expect to find a '‘pot of gold at the end of 
the rainbow.” 


256 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


GRAND JUNCTION TO MACK, COLORADO 

Thursday , September 23. 

From Grand Junction to Mack, through Fruita and Loma. 
Only 19 railroad miles; all through a wide valley, with the 
walls of the mesa on both sides, but some distance away. 
Left Grand Junction about 9 a.m.; got to Mack at 5 p.m. 
Down through the valley of the Grand River all day. 

Hot to-day; over 90 degrees part of the time. Railroad 
was awful walking; beachlike stones on the track for ballast. 

At Fruita, a small boy was directing me to the Post Office. 
There was a gray building a short distance away, in the direc¬ 
tion he was pointing, and I asked: 

“Is it any farther than that stone bunlding?” 

“No! that’s all the fur it is!” very emphatically. 

So I went that “fur”, and the Postmaster signed at 1 p.m. 

Fruita is much more of a place than it apears from the 
railroad. The Postmaster forgot to return me my letter, as I 
discovered when some distance on my road. When I went 
back for it, he didn’t even say he was sorry,—and it cost me a 
mile! Money, or even time, is no longer a criterion of value 
—I think of distances, not dollars or hours. 

The hotel here at Mack is very pretty—one-story bungalow 
style. Explained to the hotel woman that I wanted to get 
breakfast early, but she said I couldn’t have it before 7 o’clock. 
So I suggested taking a cup of coffee to my room to-night so 
I could have it before I started on my walk to-morrow morning, 
but— 

“Against the rules of the hotel for guests to take anything 
from the dining room to their rooms.” And to that she kept. 

Went to the Post Office and postmaster signed at 6 p.m. 

Spent this evening writing letters. Am giving Salt Lake 
City as my next mail address. 

To-morrow night I will be in Utah: less than 1300 railroad 
miles to go now. And to-morrow I will cross the Colorado- 
Utah line—a line drawn far up above the railroad on the 
rocks on the side of the canyon, which I have seen from the 
train four times, and every time almost shuddered at the 
lonesomeness of it. 

I am glad to have a comfortable place to stay to-night, for 
to-morrow I start on the first of my deserts. They tell me that 
the desert begins here at Mack, and that there is no place to 
stop over night until I get to Cisco, Utah, 36 miles by railroad 
from here. There are circles and names on the map, but 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


257 


these are mostly just sidings, not even a house. Somehow the 
thought of it feels very lonesome. What fearsome things does 
the desert hold for me? 

MACK, COLORADO, TO WESTWATER, UTAH 

Friday, September 2U. 

After all, I didn’t have to walk 36 miles to-day. Here I 
am at Westwater, Utah, only 19 miles from Mack. 

The first few miles out of Mack the railroad was stony, 
but the rest of the way there was a fairly hard place to walk 
beside the track. There was a tunnel, “cement-lined,” a straight 
one, but too small in diameter to suit me. I could hardly 
imagine space enough for a big engine and my 117 pounds to 
pass in it. So I hurried through. It was longer than it ap¬ 
peared to be on entering, on account of being straight and the 
farther end showing light. 

Got away from Mack at 7:45 a.m., and got here to West- 
water at 1:45: a watertank, siding, station, store and Post 
Office, and a few houses. Post Office was locked, so I went 
to the railroad station and was directed where to find the 
Postmaster: across a little footbridge, through a gate, and over 
a field, to where he was shingling a new building; but he came 
back to the Post Office and signed my slip at 2 p.m. 

The only place to get lunch was “half a mile” down the 
road and a long half mile I found it. But I didn’t want to try 
the other sixteen miles to Cisco without eating, so came down 
to this house. By the time lunch was ready (I hate to think 
the woman was slow on purpose) it was almost 3 o’clock 
The lady of the house told stories of prairie wolves following 
people even in daylight, and how the coyotes will stand and 
bark at a person. Perhaps she was putting it strong, so I 
would not wander out into the dangerous desert in the late after¬ 
noon in search of Cisco—I wonder. Her husband said, when 
I was telling him about the Nevada cattle range tales, that 
even if they were true, the men shouldn’t have told me about 
cattle running down men—it wasn’t right to take chances of 
unnerving me for my walk. 

By the time I had listened to the various coyote and 
prairie-wolf stories (these weren’t supposed to unnerve me, 
probably), I had no ambition to face the desert in the late after¬ 
noon. So stayed here, and watched the beautiful sunset clouds 
from the safety of the doorway. But, anyway, going on would 


258 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


have meant a couple of hours’ walking by moonlight; though 
as it looks now (6:30 p.m.) it will be too cloudy for a moon. 

They tell me a certain feeder of the Colorado River begins 
in an unexplored canyon near here; that several parties have 
tried to trace it, but had to give it up. One man came through 
here, and was going alone in a canoe down the stream in the 
canyon, asserting that he would either “get through or go to 
Hell.” He never came back, and never got through; only one 
inference can be drawn. 

The desert did not begin at Mack—at least, not my idea 
of desert. Now I’m told it begins here, “and is desert clear 
through to Salt Lake.” This place is as much of an oasis, to 
my eyes, as is Grand Valley. The trees follow the river down 
through the canyons from Mack to Westwater. To the right 
are the “Book Cliffs”, mile after mile of them. 

Ruby canyon is beautiful. Some of the colors reminded 
me of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. At first there 
were just the brownish-red and lighter shades, with a purplish 
shade on the farther side. But as the canyon became narrower, 
clearer and softer shades came out. I began to see why “Ruby” 
canyon. Farther along, smooth walls of ruddy brown, straight 
up from the railroad. Giant cairns piled high on some point 
of rock standing out over the canyon. Odd battelements and 
towers. Ruins of Karnac (without the inscriptions). High, 
rugged, uneven columns. Overhanging walls. At one place, 
a giant cart, in the long ago when giants walked the earth, 
dumped a load of gray rocks over the edge of the brown pre¬ 
cipice, and they landed on a slope below and rested there, some 
sliding almost down to where the railroad now is: then a wind 
blew some grass seed into the spaces between the rocks and 
the seed took root. Across the canyon, hundreds of feet above, 
a monk sits looking westward; back of him, jealous of his de¬ 
votion to the setting sun, is a sphinx. Strange ruined strong¬ 
holds there are. Fortresses that have been battered by giant 
cannon, leaving ragged rents in their sides. One cairn stands 
out, across the canyon, opposite the Colorado-Utah State line, 
that, were there not so many similar cairns, it would be hard to 
believe was not piled there to indicate the boundary. But no 
human hands could pile rocks one on another, on that high 
point, so that they could defy wind and storm. 

Yesterday’s 19 miles were comparatively unspectacular; 
but to-day’s 120 miles made up for it. 



CAMEO 

“The hottest place I’ve seen yet” 



BOOK CLIFFS 

“The views of the cliffs and buttes once more repay me for 
the whole of the lone; walk from Washington” 













0 SAN FRANCISCO 


259 


WESTWATER TO CISCO, UTAH 

Saturady, September 25. 

Started from Westwater at 9:30 this morning in a rain,— 
the first rain Westwater has had since June 6. Stopped rain¬ 
ing and rained again several times before I got here to Cisco. 
Just past Cottonwood (a switch and a section-house) one 
of the showers began, and the section man called to me to 
come back and go in out of the rain; but I kept on, after thank¬ 
ing him for his hospitality. 

At Agate (two houses and a building labeled “Store-Post- 
Office”) I went through a wicket and over to the “Store Post 
Office,” only to find that there hadn’t been a store or post 
office there for two years. Man (with shepherd dog that at 
first barked at me but concluded he would allow me to cross the 
field) told me what bad walking I would have from there on— 
“all adobe.” That really rather heartened than discouraged 
me, for adobe sounded better than^broken rock. 

The thing I have been expecting to happen, happened to¬ 
day. At a place where the track was built up high,—a “fill” 
across a wide gulley,—steep bank down from it on each side, 
an engine came out of a cut ahead. I sat down on the edge of 
the fill, with my feet down the slope and leaned forward, to 
take no chance of the train hitting me. But it stopped to wait 
for a flagman, and I got up and went on. It waited for me 
to get off the narrow fill. Engineer said, “Hullo!” and man 
on flat car back of the engine asked, 

“How’s the walking?” 

“Fine!” (Wonder how many times I’ve told that fib since 
starting from Washington.) 

“Pretty wet, though.” 

At Westwater, the Grand River leaves the railroad, start¬ 
ing southwest for the Colorado,—the railroad doesn’t leave the 
river, for I saw the river running away. 

The sand of the bluffs along the way is gray and reddish. 
Far to the north were higher cliffs, the Book Cliffs, and to the 
left the La Salle Mountains; in the angles of these were streaks 
of white—snow. Then clouds settled over them, heavy dark 
clouds; and when, after several hours, the clouds lifted (and 
they seemed literally, to lift), all the higher peaks were white 
with snow, though the nearer mountains were still brown. 
The sun was shinning on the tops, after the clouds lifted, and 
within an hour or two dark streaks appeared in the whiteness of 


260 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

the sides. Then the dark clouds dropped down again, and I 
could almost feel the heavy soft white snow falling. 

A deserted cabin at the left, perhaps an eighth of a mile 
from the railroad, doors and windows out, and two high crosses 
in the yard, on one of which perched a large black bird. The 
wind died out and everything was uncannily quiet. At the side 
of the railroad on a pole sat an ugly greenish-black desert 
bird, short neck and short tail, with very wide spread to its 
wings. It flew lazily off, another joined it and they flapped 
slowly away. Looking at the bird on the cross, I thought of 
Kipling’s story (is it Kipling?) of the sick man left in the lone 
cabin while his friend went for help, and when the friend re¬ 
turned a vulture flew out of the window,—and the friend knew! 

The deserted cabin, the crosses, the silent ugly birds— 
lonesomeness came over me, and a fear of the lonesomeness,— 
a dread of the loneness of the desert “getting” me. It stretched 
away, ahead, to the right, and back of me; to the left, the de¬ 
serted cabin, with its crosses and bird of ill omen. I dared 
not go back, dreaded to go forward, and would not stand still 
for fear I should lose the power to take another step. I 
forced my feet along, one slow step after another. 

A coyote yelped far away across the desert, the spell 
was broken—and I was myself again. Now I understand how 
the desert “gets” a lone wanderer. 

A few miles east of Cisco, I realized that the railroad was 
no longer fenced. I had passed the red cliffs, and only bare 
hummocks broke the rolling desert. The telegraph poles (each 
one propped by an extra pole) staggered along near the track, 
out of line and leaning sideways in different directions. “A 
few miles more means Cisco,” I kept telling myself. 

And now I am at Cisco, about 17 miles from Westwater. 
Postmaster signed my slip at 3:30 p.m. The visible part of 
Cisco is a dozen houses, the railroad station (also the post 
office), siding, tank, and two hotels (both run by the same 
people). 

The hotel woman says that up to to-day it has been very 
hot; the cold came down on them suddenly and caught them 
unprepared; so to-day has been given to tinkering around to 
try to close things up a little—and things need it! I had to 
wait an hour while a window was put into the room I have. 
But as it has been nailed open and the whole place is very 
airy,—board walls, and wide cracks around the door,—it is 
some cold in here, and some windy, too! I’m going over to the 
other building, to the dining room, where it will probably be 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


261 


warm. It has cleared off and the sun is out, but feels winterish. 

When I came in, the hotel woman told me she charged 50 
cents for room, 35 cents for meals. After we had chatted a 
while, she said she had given me the prices she charged traveling 
men, but she charged cowboys and such like, only 25 cents 
for a room, and would charge me only 35 cents. It’s nice to 
know I am placed at last—something between a travelling man 
and a cowboy. 

At one place this week the charges seemed to me a little 
high, considering. But perhaps they charged for the stories 
they told me of mountain and desert tragedies. 

CISCO TO THOMPSONS, UTAH 

Sunday , September 26. 

Last night, at Cisco, I hustled off to my room right away 
after supper, and hurried to bed. For the first time on the trip, 
I think, I hurried through my nightly scrub,—“a lick and a 
promise.” It surely was cold in that draughty room. The 
hurricane of wind that came in through my nailed-open window 
I tried to lessen by pulling down the curtain and putting a 
pillow on the window ledge and trying to keep it there with 
the foot of the bed shoved against it. It really didn’t matter 
much, there were so many cracks and open spaces through which 
the wind came to greet me. Soon after going to sleep, was 
waked by the groans of a sick man. Later, the landlady came 
over and talked to him, and promised to move him over to the 
other hotel in the morning, and after a time he kept quiet. I 
had a fair sleep in the end. 

Cloudy, but no rain to-day. Got away this morning at 
7:40. Four or five miles out of Cisco, it got very desertish. 

Saw afar off, two moving specks going east, two automobiles 
on the wagon road, evidently. Some time after, looking back 
along the railroad, I caught the glitter of the sun on another 
as it crossed the track,—too far off to see the car. 

For a time, the desert got more wild. I looked fearfully 
on all sides for prairie wolves. By dint of careful watching, 
I saw, on one side, a long gray shape speed eastward across 
the gray-brown of the desert. For the next twenty miles, a 
couple of times—no, oftener—in every mile I stopped and 
turned slowly around, watching for other fugitive gray streaks. 
Saw none. I sincerely hope that was the last, as well as the 
first. In a way, now that it is past and gone, I am glad I saw 
it,—but no more, please! 


262 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


The clouds kept settling over, and then rising from, the 
farther-off cliffs and buttes and mountains. The La Salle 
Mountains were not so beautiful to-day, much of the snow hav¬ 
ing melted, leaving them streaked. At one time, the sun shone on 
just one row of reddish cliffs far back of me, while nearer 
me, and all back of those cliffs, was in shadow. As the rail¬ 
road (and consequently I) wandered nearer the cliffs, the 
greenish and reddish and yellowish shades came out. Ash- 
colored cones and little mounds stood out, and then the rail¬ 
road wound near a whole little range of them, and, a few miles 
from Thompsons, it cut through a couple of the mounds. The 
earth of these looks like I imagine volcanic ashes would look. 

At one place, the wagon road cut across the desert in a 
straight line, while the railroad took a wide curve. But it 
would take a braver person than I am to leave the comparative 
friendliness of the track and telegraph poles, even to save the 
few miles that the wagon road might be shorter than the track. 

I passed Whitehouse (8 miles from Cisco), a section house, 
etc., with three covered outside cellars, and a well with a tin 
pail and rope,—the buildings and cellars all padlocked. Then 
Elba, a lonesome siding on the desert, probably so named for 
that reason. Sagars, a broken-windowed section house, on the 
steps of which sat a man hammering at his shoe (but for a coat 
and hat hanging in the entry, I would have thought him a 
tramp). Vista, another siding, well named from the view south 
and east. 

At Bridge 521A (the 521 showing the miles from Denver, 
the A that it is the first bridge on the 521st mile), between 6 
and 7 miles from Thompsons, the railroad wire fencing begins 
again. That fence lessons the adrift-in-the-desert feeling. Get¬ 
ting to it, I must have unconsciously walked slower, for on the 
last six miles I lost ten minutes. Up to then I had made my 
three miles an hour, including stops to shake pebbles or cinders 
out of my shoes, and to take off or put on my sweater. The 
whole 24 miles from Cisco to Thompsons took 8 hours and ten 
minutes,—7:40 a.m. to 3:50 p.m. A little higher now—Thomp¬ 
sons is 5160 feet. 

Had no lunch to-day, but a good supper to-night; among 
other things, baked potatoes—baked right, too. 

The Thompsons Post Office is in the general store. The 
clerk (a woman) gave me my mail, cashed my money-order 
which had been forwarded from Grand Junction, and signed 
my slip at 3:55 p.m. While she was talking to me, an Indian 
woman came and stood right up close to me. I took her to 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


263 


be a boy—was dressed just like the Indian man with her. 
They had come down to sell some woven Indian rugs, and were 
dickering with a man over the price. The price of, such things 
here depends on weight as well as on how anxious the purchaser 
is to have the rug. From the size of the store, Thompsons 
must do a good business with the outlying mines and ranches. 
There are a few houses near the railroad station, and the hotel 
is quite large, and apparently has a number of “regular” 
boarders, men and some women. Everyone seems pleasant,— 
the pleasantest all-round people I have met for some time. 

The close-at-hand and the distant views of the cliffs and 
buttes to-day once more repay me for the whole of the long walk 
from Washington. 

THOMPSONS TO GREEN RIVER, UTAH 

Monday, September 27. 

Got away from Thompsons at 7:15 a.m. Again the 
pleasantness of everyone impressed me. When I asked if be¬ 
tween Thompsons and Green River the railroad ran nearer the 
buttes or was more desertish than yesterday’s trip, I was told 
it was more open. But instead, it kept near the right-hand 
cliffs, and, after a while, ran through many cuts in the ashy 
mounds. 

As I left Thompsons, I met a man walking in; looked like 
a tramp, and yet he didn’t. He had been riding in a freight 
car that had been side-tracked in the night some time, at the 
siding just beyond Thompsons. Asked how the people there 
were, and if I had had any breakfast. I recommended the 
people highly, and said I had had breakfast—neglected to tell 
him I had paid for it; don’t want the tramps to think I have 
any money. He said he had a “set-out” in the freight car, and 
to stop if I hadn’t eaten. Having already had a good breakfast, 
I didn’t take advantage of his hospitality. As I passed the car, 
I saw inside the half-open door two plump bags. 

“But tell me, are you really on the road?” he had asked. 

“Looks like it, doesn’t it—walking through the desert.” I 
wouldn’t for anything have the tramps think I am anything but 
a feminine of the species, and therefore, by implication, dead 
broke. 

The first siding (that being the proper designation, not 
“switch,” as I keep calling it) was Crescent. When nearly the 
whole road across the desert is in crescents, why name one 
place “Crescent” more than another? At Crescent, far over 


264 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

near the cliffs, were some cattle or horses, and I think some 
low buildings—too far off to see for sure. 

To-day was warm, and through the middle of the day, hot. 
Very hazy, so that all the cliffs were indistinct, except the 
near ones. The ashy purplish and reddish cliffs continued most 
of the day, nearer or farther off, as the railroad curved back 
and forth. The telegraph poles staggered along, at times stand¬ 
ing upright for half a mile, without supports, and again leaning 
all out of line. These staggering poles gave the desert an in¬ 
describably abandoned look. 

Thirteen miles from Thompsons is Floy—a section house, 
siding, etc. A young woman was there (Mexican or Indian, or 
both) and let me have ice water to drink out of the barrel at 
the corner of the house, but refused to sell me any lunch. 
Said she cooked only enough for breakfast and didn’t have any¬ 
thing left. Cheerfully told me I couldn’t get anything to eat till 
I should get to Green River. 

These section houses usually have a barrel of ice and 
water at the corner of the house. The railroad company sup¬ 
plies the ice, so there is always plenty of cold drinking water; 
and where there is no other way of getting water, the com¬ 
pany hauls it to the siding on cars. 

At Solitude, horses and mules were working, filling in to 
make a new siding,—oh, men were with them, and I suppose 
thought they were working, too. On one track were box cars, 
being used for living quarters for the employees, and a pleasant 
woman standing in the door of one spoke to me. I asked for a 
drink of water; wasn’t really thirsty, but wanted an excuse to 
stop in the shade of the car. Much to my surprise, she said, 
“Come in.” A railroad tie was the walk to her door, one end 
on the ground and the other resting on the car door, and her 
house was a box car divided into two rooms. She asked if I 
had had any dinner, and when I said the woman at Floy section- 
house had refused to sell me any, she went into another car,— 
the cook’s,—and a little later took me in. There I had peas 
and boiled potatoes and bread and tea and meat. I ate all I 
wanted, which was some considerable. Altogether spent an hour 
with her. I have passed more solitude-looking places than 
Solitude, even had the workmen and cars not been there. 

The down-grade from Solitude was noticeable. Five miles 
before Green River, I took the wagon road for about a mile, and 
then crossed back to the railroad. Passed Daly (another 
siding); presently, a green valley ahead. Elgin, on the west 
side of the river, showed up as a dozen or more houses and some 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


265 


stores within sight of the track, all with the green trees for a 
background. 

Green River is a mile west of the bridges across the river. 
The railroad has quite an imposing three-span iron bridge, 
and the wagon road also crosses on a three-span bridge. I 
looked at the former, and, though the river is not far below, 
went over to the wagon road and crossed the river on that 
bridge, and came along a road with small poplar trees and tall 
weeds on both sides. Near the 553 mile railroad post (two miles 
from Green River) are large signs, “This is the place, Green 
River, 1 mile. Watch us grow/’ etc.; evidently one mile to the 
town line. 

Just before the town of Green River, I crossed from the 
wagon road back to the railroad; and there sat my tramp of the 
morning. 

“Beat you to it,” said he. 

The freight train he was riding in had passed me as I 
came over the wagon road bridge (the railroad bridge is very 
near it), and, after getting off the freight, he walked back down 
the track. Wanted me to stay and talk, but I wanted to get 
to town. I agreed, however, to go over to the railroad station 
this evening and talk to him; felt it would be interesting to get 
an inside view of the tramp attitude. So to-night I went over 
to the station; but as only the ticket office of the station was 
lighted, I got a timetable and didn’t tarry. 

At one place recently I was given a room where the bed had 
been slept in. I asked for clean linen, and the landlady was 
indignant. Says the difference in price of .the rooms is because 
the higher-priced rooms have clean sheets, though, for my 
peace of mind she assured me, “They are not lousey.” I re¬ 
minded her that she had set the price—I had not asked for a 
cheap room. She unwillingly changed me to another room, 
where the bed linen was fresh. I suppose I am “up agin’ it” 
again in the matter of beds. Also, once I could swear the 
steak was burro meat! 

The Green River postmaster signed at 5:30 p.m. About 
27 miles to-day. Just before getting into the town, I heard 
and saw a chickadee. It is a long time since I have seen or 
heard a town-bird. 

After planting my little bag in my room, I drifted out and 
across a vacant lot to a cafe, glancing furtively on all sides as 
I crossed the alkali—for what? I hardly knew,—stray coyotes, 
perhaps, that might come out of the surrounding desert. The 
white alkali everywhere gives a feeling of unreality. 


206 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


This town, more than any other town I have seen, makes- 
me realize I am in the desert. The alkali is on the streets* 
like a light fall of snow. I’m told that is because it rained 
a few days ago; that the alkali comes to the surface of the 
ground after, or during, a rain, and will soon blow off. Mean¬ 
while, under the streets lights and the moonlight, it resembles 
a light fall of snow. 

GREEN RIVER TO WOODSIDE, UTAH 

Tuesday , September 28 . 

(Written the 29th.) 

In the morning, at Green River, the alkali showed for 
alkali and not fine, light snow. 

As I left Green River, just beyond sight of the houses, 
there sat my Tramp. He is getting to be such an old friend, I 
shall capitalize him, to distinguish him from other tramps. He 
says he was brought up in Somerville, Mass,; was injured in the 
Spanish-American War in Cuba, and has just drifted around 
since as a tramp. Says his brother is a business-man in one of 
the large cities. Had a number of letters addressed to him¬ 
self,—at least said the napie on the envelopes was his name, 
and wanted me to look at them, to prove that he was he. Says 
if I will go in partnership with him, he feels sure he could raise 
the money from his brother to buy a wagon and two horses, and 
we could drive back from the West Coast by the Southern route, 
peddling things the country people would want. Knows his 
brother would lend him the cash, to get him away from tramping 
—he is now 38 years old. 

Get away finally at 8:05. Green trees and ranches all up 
the first few miles of railroad—Lombardy poplars, I suppose, 
but maybe tall cottonwoods. Then, another stretch of so-called 
desert. The railroad is quite near the cliffs on the right—no, 
the cliffs don’t seem near the railroad, it’s the other way 
round, the road near the cliffs. At Sphinx, a siding, is a long 
line of cliffs to the right and ahead, of which the last one does 
clearly resemble pictures of the sphinx. At the northwest end 
of these cliffs, is Cliff, another siding. But here the cliff has 
lost its resemblance to a sphinx. Before these sidings, is Desert, 
another place that makes me wonder why that name there any 
more than anywhere else. 

I am beginning to get fond of the desert, with its ashy 
mounds, its colored cliffs and palisades. 

In the morning, met two men (Mexicans?), one of whom 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


267 


wanted to talk; but I was too anxious to get on, and not anxious 
to talk to his type. 

As I passed Desert (I think it was), which is a siding and 
a section house, a young Mexican woman came to the window of 
the house and called after me; I waved my hand and went on. 
Then she ran out and called. I went back and had lunch. She 
said a young Mexican who was there had passed me on the rail¬ 
road in the morning—he on a freight train coming up from 
Green River—and had told her to be sure to call me in and give 
me something to eat. And even when she called me back so 
urgently, I had no hopes of lunch, remembering the young woman 
at the other section house. This woman was the wife of the 
section boss; the young Mexican, who declined to talk English, 
though she said he could talk it as well as she could, was one of 
the section-hands, who had decided not to work that day and had 
been pressed into service by her to go to town (Green River) 
for supplies. 

“He told me a woman was walking up the railroad and 
would be thirsty and hungry, and he told me not to let her go 
past.” That young Mexican had been hungry and thirsty him¬ 
self, methinks. 

Just as I was nearing one of the sidings that had no build¬ 
ings, I saw, about a mile ahead, things dashing back and forth 
across the railroad. (Have got so I can judge distances with 
surprising accuracy; check my ideas up by the mileposts.) 

“Cattle!” I said it out loud, and stopped short; then almost 
looked round, to see who had spoken. 

There were a couple of low hummocks by the track,and I 
considered waiting there till the cattle should pass. But they 
didn’t seem to make any headway in my direction. The one 
cowboy with them was making wild dashes across the desert 
after several loose horses that were racing around, and then, 
as the cattle spread out, would ride back and round them up 
again. For the first time I appreciated the term, “rounding-up” 
range cattle. For perhaps three quarters of an hour I stood 
there, knowing I was too far away for the cattle to be inter¬ 
ested in a motionless object. By that time, he had got all the 
horses bunched except one that was still some distance on the 
right of the railroad. 

Then he caught one of the loose horses, changed his saddle 
to it from the one he had been riding,—after which the cattle 
needed another rounding up. 

What to do? These were evidently range cattle,—the 
kind that a wayfarer on foot must not let see her. Should I stay 


268 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


where I was and try to use the hummocks for protection? I 
might crouch down on the top, but if a stray animal should walk 
up and see me,—well, the hummocks were no real protection, 
and the old road the cattle were travelling passed close against 
them, as did the railroad. Then, too, at the rate the cattle were 
not getting on, it might be several hours (and dark) before 
they travelled the mile and passed me. Yet, the way they were 
racing round, I couldn’t—dare not—go on and try to pass them. 

Looked for a means of escape: there was a quite deep and 
narrow “wash” on the side of the railroad farthest away from 
the bunch,—only the one loose horse was on that side. The 
wash ran parallel to the railroad. 

Crouching low, so as not to attract the attention of the 
cattle, I crept the half-dozen yards and dropped into the wash. 
I walked along in it (the banks were slightly above my head), 
hoping to get past the cattle before it should end. But it petered 
out just opposite the bunch. Peering up over the edge, I saw 
the cowboy ride over my side of the track to get the stray horse. 
When he got near (as near, I figured, as he would come), I came 
up on the surface of the desert. He pulled up his horse and sat 
without moving,—naturally some surprised to see a woman on 
the desert where a moment before he had been alone with his 
cattle and horses. 

The man’s “N-o-o-o-o-o” wasn’t at all reassuring, when I 
asked him if it was safe for me to go past his cattle; nor was the 
way his eyes roved over the bunch. I figured he was trying to 
spot the position of some particularly obstreperous one or ones. 
So I asked him to keep between me and the cattle till I got past. 
This he willingly agreed to do—would probably have done so 
anyway. I hastened along—or tried to, but went oh, so slowly, 
it seemed to me,—and, when a short distance past, looked back, 
and he was again riding round and round, keeping them bunched. 
I hustled along. 

When I first saw the cattle, and was standing looking at 
them, a movement beside the railroad made me look that way, 
and there, not a dozen feet from me, stood a long, lean gray 
prairie wolf. We might have been afraid of each other,—I 
surely would have been scared of him,—only for our fellow feel¬ 
ing of fear of something else; my mind was taken up with the 
problem of how to avoid being seen by the cattle, and his was 
undoubtedly taken up with how to avoid being seen by the cow¬ 
boy. iSo, having a friendly feeling, I said, “Well, old chap!” 
Occasionally we glanced at each other,—that is, every time I 
took my eyes away from the cattle and looked at him, he was 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


269 


looking at me,—until by careful, almost moveless steps, he got 
some little distance away; then, the next time I glanced his way, 
he wasn’t there. 

He was much longer than I supposed a prairie wolf to be, 
and stood much higher; certainly was very much larger, higher 
and longer than the Washington Zoo prairie wolves. They tell 
me that the coyotes, too, through here are large,—much larger, 
when full-grown, than most collie dogs. I suppose the ones in 
captivity are only the descendents of the wild ones, and perhaps, 
grow smaller from generation to generation. 

A couple of miles after I had got past the cattle, I realized 
that a cinder was boring a hole under my toe, in the same place 
it had been boring just before I first saw the cattle, about eight 
miles before Woodside. 

Soon green trees appeared at the foot of a long line of 
cliffs, and I knew why “Woodside.” The place didn’t look en¬ 
couraging. There was a section-house, but only foreign men 
seemed to be there and at the station. 

I went to the Post Office, and the grandfather of the Post¬ 
mistress (who had himself been postmaster for sixteen years.,) 
after signing my slip at 5:30 p.m., sent me over to his house for 
a room. But his wife thought otherwise, and refused to let me 
stay, on the plea of no room for a woman because she had the 
house full of men. So I began a canvass of the half-dozen 
houses in the town. 

One woman admitted having a storeroom where a person 
could stay, but said she wouldn’t put a strange woman in her 
storeroom. Wonder if she feared for her stored supplies. At 
another house, the man (a civilized man) said his wife was 
away, otherwise I could stay at their house. The whole town 
stood at their fences watching me hunt for a place; but each 
woman refused. I couldn’t get a place to stay. 

Before getting to Woodside, I had passed a young girl rid¬ 
ing in on a small horse. After I had canvassed the town in vain, 
I saw her just leaving for home, and asked her if she thought 
her mother would let me stay at their house. She thought so; 
said her mother had let people stay, when no one in town would 
let them and they had come back to her house. Speaking of the 
man whose wife was away, the girl commented: 

“We were watching and were saying it would be just like 
him to let you stay, he is so queer.” I suppose it would have 
shocked the little town terribly if he had. 

Her mother’s house was over a mile back in the direction 
from which I had come, though not on the same road. However, 


270 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


her mother took me in. The supper plates were ready, filled 
with mush, and she took them out in the kitchen and took a 
spoonful out of each to make up a plate for me; evidently had 
cooked just enough for the family. Why cannot one make a 
woman like that understand how one appreciates her goodness? 
I knew I couldn’t, so was stupidly silent. There was the father 
(an elderly man), several grown sons, and the two girls,—the 
one I met in town, who had already had a year of high school in 
“the city,” and a younger girl, who “must have the same 
chance and go to high school for a year,” the mother said. Last, 
and far from least, was the small boy of the house, younger 
than the girls, who was a great worry to the older girl: “he 
gallops his pony all the time, up hill and down;” she knows' 
he will “kill himself some day.” Mother takes his escapades 
very quietly and refuses to worry about him. 

Around Woodside, there were many small birds. 

Have been making short days, because the places where 
there are any houses to stay at, don’t come right. About 28 
miles to-day, counting running round and turning back. Green 
River is only something over 4000 feet elevation, but Woodside 
is over 4600 feet. 

WOODSIDE TO MOUNDS, UTAH 

Wednesday, September 29. 

It was cold last night, and I hardly slept at all. I had a 
couch in the girls’ room. I can do without a meal, at this stage 
of the walk, better than without sleep. This morning, had hot 
cakes and coffee for breakfast; and left, wishing mine hostess 
could realize how I appreciate her taking me in. 

The railroad out of Woodside followed up a narrow valley, 
with tiny ranch houses and green trees following the water. The 
railroad crossed “Sunnyside Wash” a number of times during the 
forenoon, till I began to think it must lead to Sunnyside in¬ 
stead of to Mounds. To-day, my line of travel is northwest; 
yesterday, after the first few miles, it was more nearly north. 

After a half dozen miles, saw smoke rising over the cliffs 
ahead. A railroad section man told me it was from the Sunny¬ 
side Coal mines, 17 miles from Mounds. The railroad ran 
among the mounds, and closer to the cliffs. Somehow, I felt 
much higher up, though there is less than eight hundred feet 
difference in the elevation of Woodside and Mounds; the former 
being 4645 feet altitude, and the latter, 5442 feet. 

These days on the desert I have been seeing big black birds, 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


271 


that are curious about me. They say, ‘Urrrrk! urrrrk!” some¬ 
times in a questioning tone, and sometimes in a dissatisfied 
tone. They are sociable black things, usually sitting by twos 
or threes on the crossbars of the telegraph poles or on the 
ground. At times, one or two of them travel along with me 
for miles, sometimes following close back of me, and sometimes 
preceeding me, resting on the poles till I overtake them. Think 
they must be desert crows; but I don’t like them, because of 
that deserted cabin and crosses where I saw the first one. 
Then there is a brown bird, much smaller than these (about as 
big as our crow), flying round the desert. 

Took one short-cut across a right-angled curve in the track, 
and saved thereby at most perhaps three-quarters of a mile,— 
if I didn’t use it up climbing into and out of washes. That 
particular curve was on account of an upgrade. But why many 
of the curves are in the track, I do not understand—perhaps 
the surveyors did; although places where new roadbed has been 
built, many of the old curves are cut out, which leads me to 
think that maybe the surveyors didn’t. The short-cut was full 
of washes and banks and little rises, and I felt coyotes slinking 
along under the banks. 

At the end of my cut-off, was a steep little rise. When I 
got up it, there sat a man, eating, in a little hollow. I don’t 
know whether he or I was the most surprised. I explained my 
sudden presence by saying that I had crossed over to avoid 
walking round the long curve in the railroad. I went to go 
down to the track, and almost walked over three men lying 
down in a kind of dry ditch. So went a little farther and got 
on the track again. 

Saw a wagon road I thought might lead to Mounds, and 
almost took it. Asked a couple of section hands about it, and 
they said there is no wagon road to Mounds. But up here at 
Mounds to-night I find there is a wagon road, from somewhere 
or to somewhere. 

Got a drink of water at Grassy,—a siding and padlocked 
section-house,—by letting a tin bucket on a chain down into the 
tank-well close by the railroad. A dog came round the corner 
of the little house, looked me over, decided I was harmless and 
not worth closer inspection, and went back. The little level 
space round Grassy is quite green. 

“Cedar” is where the ridges and mounds begin to be sprink¬ 
led with stunted cedars. A line of box cars on a siding was 
marked “Hotel Equipment Outfit No. 1.” After I passed, a 
man came out of one of the cars,—probably the cook. 


272 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


Very hazy to-day; not very hot, except sometimes between 
the cliffs. 

About 2Vz or 3 miles from Mounds, on my right, perhaps a 
mile away, was another railroad. I supposed it was the same 
one I was on, after an unusually large hairpin curve, and came 
near cutting across to it. However, on careful inspection of 
the telegraph poles against the skyline, could make out but two 
arms on them, so, luckily, didn’t cross over. Learn here at 
Mounds that it is the Sunnyside Mines Railroad; and the mines 
being 17 miles from Mounds, where would I have landed at 
dark, had I crossed over and taken it! Oh, well, “the Provi¬ 
dence that watches over children and fools,” must class me in 
the ‘“and—”. 

Just before Mounds station, are a number of fort-like cliffs 
on top of the mounds. At Verde (empty stockyards and siding), 
three of the mounds guarding the place have something on top 
that, at first sight, look like monks: then, as I got a better side 
view, like gateways high and narrow. 

Here at Mounds, the Post Office is in the station. The sta¬ 
tion agent’s wife is postmaster and telegraph operator; signed 
my slip at 5 p.m. She is very nice; let me have this little 
one-room cabin where I am writing, which is across the track 
from the depot, to sleep in,—regular darling of a little old- 
maid’s cabin. Her sister has been using it while visiting her, 
but happens to be away now. 

There are five sidings here (think it’s five); two of them 
just now occupied by railroad outfits, each with its own cars 
and dining car. The postmistress directed me to one of the 
construction trains, where she thought I could get supper. The 
cook of this outfit is a girl,—the daughter of the boss of the 
construction gang; a very pleasant girl. She said I could have 
supper then, or with the men, or with her after the men were 
through. Naturally I chose the last. 

When I went back about 7 o’clock, she said she had got the 
men to hurry through their supper, by telling them that the 
oil was low in the lamps and they ought to hurry through eating- 
before it gave out. Had a pleasant chat, staying a while after 
supper. The oil in the lamps held out. She certainly knows 
how to cook. She told me of a preacher that came up there, 
and “rested up”. The Postmistress, who let him sleep in the 
little cabin, paid for his meals at the construction train. He 
stayed on and on, feeding up. What shiftlessness religion ex¬ 
cuses! Another time, a young man walking along asked to 
stay at the cabin, and ate with the people at the depot, and then 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


273 


slid off in the morning without so much as saying thank you or 
good-by. 

It was dark when I left the car—absolutely black dark. A 
freight train had pulled in on the track next to the one the con¬ 
struction train was on. I had to walk between the two trains, 
and almost walked into some young men (judging by their voi¬ 
ces, it being too dark to see them)that were standing close 
to the side of the outfit cars. They probably had been riding on 
the freight, and had got off till it should start on again, so the 
railroad men wouldn’t see them. I stopped short, not because 
I saw even the outlines, but by that sense that makes one con¬ 
scious something is close by. Their eyes must have been more 
accustomed to the dark than mine, or perhaps they had seen me 
in the light from the car when I left it after supper, for they 
hastened to assure me that it was “all right”, and they 
“wouldn’t bother me.” I couldn’t see even a glimmer of a dark 
shadow as I passed them. They must have thought I saw them 
and stopped because I was afraid. I don’t think I could get up 
a scare at a person now, either in daytime or after dark. 

When I got back here to my little cabin, I found Mrs Post¬ 
master had been in and lighted my lamp. More tired to-night 
than any time for weeks. About 25 miles in all to-day. 

Have got all over looking and wondering on which side 
coyotes are; am not afraid of them now. I do like the desert— 
which is a misnomer for this part of Utah, with its strangely 
shaped mounds and buttes. One afternoon the setting sun col¬ 
ored them with wonderful hazy purplish and lavendar tints,— 
tints I had never expected to see outside of a painting. 

MOUNDS TO HELPER, UTAH 

Thursday, September 30. 

Was so tired I slept late this morning. Went over to the 
car and had breakfast. Construction train girl gave me her 
mother’s address in Salt Lake City, urging that I go there the 
night I spend in that city. Got away at 9:35 a.m. 

Ranches all along the narrow valley. At Farnham (siding 
and a house), two men were fixing the fence; one asked about 
my trip. This man is the first person, since the Postmaster at 
Cumberland, Maryland, who has said in effect: 

“Go to it: you’ll get there!” . 

Everyone has wished me success, with evident doubts of 
my ability to succeed. This man, like the Cumberland Post¬ 
master, asked, 


274 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


“You think you’ll get to San Francisco?” 

And to him, also, I replied, “I haven’t thought of not getting 

there ^ 9 

And again, like the Cumberland Postmaster, he said: 

“Then you’ll do it.” . „ 

From Washington, D. C., to Utah I have walked, and in all 
that space no friendly soul has said by implication, Go to it! 
except these two. I am not minimizing the good wishes of the 
men and many of the women I have met, but the hardships and 
what were considered impossibilities of the walk have been sug¬ 
gested to me most often. Talk of “faint, damning praise, — 
its nothing to the “faint, damning” encouragement I have got- 


vv^XAt _ _ • 

The Wellington Postmaster signed at 1 p.m. He is an 
Ohio man, been out here 36 years. After 25 years of Utah, he 
went back to visit Ohio—and stayed ten days. Didn’t like Ohio 

any more. . , _ OA 

Had lunch at Price, where the Postmaster signed at 3:30 

p.m. It is quite a town. 

Between Farnham and Wellington, where the wagon road 
ran alongside the railroad, met a foreigner in khaiki, riding a 
black horse, guiding it by a rope round its neck—no saddle, 
no bridle. He turned back and crossed the railroad just as I 
came along. Turned his horse close to me, so that he almost 
stepped on me, and seemed to enjoy it as a joke. He rode into 
Wellington, and later overtook me between Wellington and 
Price; he then had a new bridle and an old saddle. It must 
have been payday, and he was outfitting. While I was at lunch 
in Price, saw him riding round the streets. * 

The Price River is now my companion, at intervals. 

Just before Helper, passed a junction station where a little 
railroad came down from the mountains; and on the little sta¬ 
tion was a sign, “Salt Lake City 113 miles.” I suppose this is, 
or at some time was, a shortcut railroad to Salt Lake City. 
Would have liked to have taken it, but there may be no stopping 
places in the 113 miles where a stranger woman can stay. 

It was getting dusk, and, as I rounded a curve, an electric 
light came into sight,—then more lights. They did look good: 
for they meant, not a search for a place to stay, but a hotel in a 
town—Helper. Here is where the extra engines are put on to 
help the trains up the long grade to Soldier Summit. 


The water in this hotel is reddish and muddy and smells 
like clay; which reminds me, that at Thompsons, Utah, the 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 275 

water was very clayish; was told it is always so after rains 
in the mountains. 

From the 5442 foot altitude of Mounds, I have come up 23 
railroad miles to Helper’s 5840 feet. 

Helper is at the West side of the “Eastern Utah Desert. 
But that Desert is not a desert in any sense I should use the 
term, though from Mack to Helper it is called one,—for 158 
miles. It is wonderful and beautiful; full of strange, weird 
cliffs and mounds and canyons—and skulking coyotes. 

I’m told that the alkali deserts of Nevada are taking their 
toll even of automobilists that try to cross, and that no person 
on foot can survive the alkali and sand storms. 

HELPER TO SOLDIER SUMMIT, UTAH 

Friday , October 1. 

The Postmaster at Helper signed at 7 a.m. 

This morning it was very cold; it mindeth me of winter, 
though I try not to think of the deserts and Sierras ahead. I‘ 
bought a winter hat—kind of plaid, black and white and gray, 
which will turn down over my ears and keep them warm if need 
be. The past few days, when the wind blew at morning and 
evening, my head has been very cold in my panama. Going up 
to the store, I passed a group of men, from which my Tramp 
detached himself, and came along up the street with me. 

Came up the Price River Valley from Helper; in fact have 
been coming up it ever since Farnham yesterday. Canyon all 
the way. At first, great towering rocks on both sides. At 
Castle Gate, rightly named from the two high, square masses 
of sandstone, nearly 500 feet high, between which the railroad 
runs, the Postmaster signed at 0:50 a.m. Have come up nearly 
2000 feet to-day, in 25 railroad miles. 

A young man that I had passed where he was standing 
apparently waiting for a train, followed me up the railroad 
through the canyon. For about four miles, I made him do some 
hustling; then he began to run, and overtook me. Wanted me to 
sit down and wait for a freight. Might be was employed a- 
round the railroad yards, by his appearance. I told him I was 
walking on a bet, when he kept along with me; that I wanted 
to walk alone. He turned back down the track. 

Before taking the railroad this morning, I asked a little 
boy where the track went to. He said: 

“Colton,” and supplemented that by, “It goes lots of 


276 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

places”; then, as the immensity of the territory traversed by a 
railroad overspread his eight-year-old brain, he added: 

“Anywhere you want to go, it goes. It keeps right on” 

At Colton, where I had lunch, the canyon spreads out into 
grazing lands for stock. Came up here to Soldier Summit. 
A number of sheep-boys are here for the night—nice, bright 
fellows. I wish I could remember the clever things they said 
this evening. 

At one town recently, I telephoned ahead and engaged 
room and supper and breakfast. I told the woman that I was 
walking, and wouldn't go on unless I was sure of a place to 
stay and meals. She was very pleasant over the telephone. 
But when I got there, I had almost to fight to stay. The 
woman, who is also postmaster and boarding-house keeper, evi¬ 
dently didn’t like my looks. She signed my slip—or rather re¬ 
fused to sign it, notwithstanding the letter from the Postmaster 
General’s office, but did put the Post Office stamp on it. She 
said that if she had understood over the telephone I was walk¬ 
ing, she would not have said I could stay, and that I couldn’t 
stay. I showed her my letters, and asked what difference it made 
whether I was a man or a woman, if I had money to pay my 
way and those letters. She just stuck to it, that a woman walk¬ 
ing couldn’t stay at her house. As it happened, there wasn’t 
any other house to stay at, and I got there just at dark. I sur¬ 
veyed the porch, as a possible squatting place for the night, and 
wondered if she would set the dog on me if I tried to stay there 
all night. 

The woman’s daughter had been to the city to college, and 
I thought she might be more enlightened, so I said to her that I 
would have stopped before going so far if her mother hadn’t 
agreed over the telephone that I could stay. Daughter said: 

“Of course mama didn’t understand you were walking or 
she wouldn’t have said so.” 

I sat in the store a long while. One of the boarders was 
talking to me, and, recalling what travelling men have told 
me,—that if I would give the women “back talk” and make them 
afraid of me they would be better to me, I decided to try it. If 
I had to sleep out in the mountains, I would let the lady know 
what I thought of her; so I aired my views of such women. I 
could see her arm just within the door of the next room for 
some time; then it disappeared. My talk had the desired effect: 
after a time she called me to supper, and later gave me a room 
off the living-room. Later, she came in and said that she had 
put one of the men in the living room to sleep, but that he was 





CASTLE GATE 

The rocks forming Castle Gate are five hundred feet high 




















TO SAN FRANCISCO 


277 


a nice fellow and I needn’t be afraid. I told her I had found 
the men all nice on my trip; that it was the women who weren’t. 
Strange that being hateful to people of her disposition makes 
them nicer to a body. The travelling men are right! 

She did not put fresh bed-linen on/but as I was staying 
on such a slim margin of tolerance, refrained from saying any¬ 
thing. Turned the top sheet, which looked fresh, and used it 
for both upper and lower. The room had a tiny square for a 
window. 

Beyond Castle Gate, the rocks gave place to hills—mount¬ 
ains. The tops of these hills are the most beautiful deep reds and 
yellows and greens. Stunted cedars scattered over them. Near¬ 
ing the summit of the range, tall green cedar trees were in the 
little ravines on the hillsides. As I came up from Colton to 
Soldier Summit, the ridges toward the top were beautiful in 
their fall covers. The frost must have been harder here than 
in the Rockies. From Colton on, I was out on the sides of the 
mountain tops. 

Up here at Soldier Summit are the graves of some of the 
soldiers belonging to Colonel Albert Sidney Johnson’s Army. 
Returning from the “Mormon War” in 1857-58, they marched 
up the route now followed by the railroad. One of their camps 
was at the top of the range. I supose this is where the name, 
Soldiers’ Summit, came from. 

I haven’t done justice to the beauty of the canyon from 
Helper to Colton.. But I have not, and cannot, do justice to any 
of the scenery. The Price River is beside the railroad; above, 
the high brownish and reddish rocks stand out in towers and 
figures. There are about eight or nine miles of this. Boulders 
look ready to fall. The rocks forming Castle Gate are 500 feet 
high; and many others, higher, some guarding the canyon be¬ 
low, and some threatening it. The canyon winds and twists. 

SOLDIER SUMMIT TO THISTLE, UTAH 

Saturday , October 2. 

Left Soldier Summit about 8 a.m., and dropped rapidly 
down the mountains. At Tucker (several houses, and a store 
and post office combined), got postmaster’s signature at 9 a.m. 
This is a place where I asked my landlady of last night if 
there was any place to stay, and she said she didn’t know if 
anyone at all lived at Tucker now; that there used to be a 
Post Office there, but she thought it had been given up. The 
man here told of an auto breakdown some of the railroad 


278 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


officials had on the mountain road, and they went to a house 
and were refused a meal or any food. I seem to have fared 
better last night than the railroad officials did, so why should 

The railroad station for Tucker is Gilluly. The town of 
that name is over a mile lower down—deserted. Has some 
time been quite a place for the section of the country it is in. 
All but one house now seems empty. At this large, two- 
storey house, that probably used to be a hotel, a blear-eyed 
hound growled at me as I passed. . , „ , _ . „ 

Green trees are along the river—Spanish Fork Creek all 
the way down the canyons. The canyons are narrow, and in 
many places there is just the railroad, the river, and the wagon 
road. Then the canyon widens a trifle, and there are tiny 
ranches, the houses mostly abandoned, though some still are 


occupied. . 

At the beginning of the narrowest part is a siding, Nar¬ 
rows”, called “Red Narrows”. Below Narrows, again there are 
strange rock formations worn by the weather. The rock is 
mostly either the red cliff or conglomerate—the latter the most 
wonderful of its kind I have ever seen. 

I took the old railroad grade down from Soldier Summit, 
which is five miles shorter than the new one. But the railroad 


hasn’t repainted its mile-posts below where the old and new 
tracks join, so I thought (from the timetable mileage) I still 
had five miles more to travel, to get to Thistle, when I found 
myself here to-night. About 25 miles to-day. 

On the way down (and I have dropped from an altitude 
of 7454 feet at the summit to 5033 feet at Thistle), again the 
hills were brilliant in yellows and dull greens and reds. 

Up in the canyon, a freight passed me coming down; then 
it had to wait on a siding, and I passed it. The brakeman and 
fireman (or engineer) were talking to me. Shortly after, the 
train passed me again, and, just as it passed, broke in two. It 
was perhaps a minute before the trainmen discovered that it had 
parted; then they stopped. So again I passed it, and a mile 
or so above Thistle it once more overtook me. When I saw a 
freight standing on the switch here, I thought that train had 
again come to grief, not knowing I was so near Thistle. 

Several miles above Thistle, where there are tall, slim trees 
(poplars I suppose), the wind began to blow, very hard, in fierce 
gusts. It increased, and many times I had to crouch down to 
keep from being blown off my feet. 

Thistle is practically all railroad tracks. It has some stores 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


279 


and a few houses, mostly boarding houses. I had supper at the 
station. The Post Office clerk, (a woman) signed at 6:30 p.m. 

The mountains go up abruptly from the little triangle that 
makes Thistle, and the canyons leading out of and into the little 
level are so narrow the place seems entirely walled in. 

One of the freight-train men to-day told me where to come 
for a room and meals when I got to Thistle; but the trains are 
across the only apparent approach to the house, so I couldn’t go 
there. Got a room at another house. Asked for some wood, 
and the man came up and built me a fire, which has taken the 
chill off the room, though it has burned out. 

Now, it is blowing as hard as I ever knew it to blow any¬ 
where, and growing rapidly colder. This house is in kind of a 
sheltered hollow back of some of the tracks, yet the wind seems 
resolved to blow it away. 

THISTLE TO PROVO, UTAH 

Sunday, October 3. 

Got up late. Had breakfast at the house to which the 
trainmen recommended me to go and I didn’t get to last night, 
shut off by the freight train. Ate and ate and ate of brown 
muffins. A trainman at the table said he had seen me at Col¬ 
ton. All trainmen must look alike to me, it seems, for I do not 
remember the individuals—just the good-natured class, always 
ready to tell me to ride, and it seems to me rather pleased when 
I insist that I mean to walk every step of the way. 

In the dining-room at my breakfast-house, is a picture of 
Thistle, about 2Yz by 4 feet, painted by one of the railroad train 
engineers. It is exactly like the place; the mountains in it are 
mountains. So the houses are houses, and not blurs. In re¬ 
ality, no matter how far away a house is, if it is visible at all, 
it is always clearcut, whether in mountain or valley; but in 
paintings (especially in exhibitions and galleries), distant ones 
are blurry spots. 

Great excitement at Thistle this morning. It was reported 
that Salt Lake City had an earthquake shock last night and 
hadn’t been able to get San Francisco on the wire since. Thistle 
people surmised that San Francisco had had a bad shock, and 
that the trouble was at that end of the line. 

Left Thistle at 9 a.m.. Below Thistle, the canyon continued 
narrow, and the hills were beautiful,—top after top showing 
back of the depressions in the nearer ones,—in their brilliant 
dark reds and bright reds and yellows and greens. One parti- 


280 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


cularly attractive place, every little hilltop stood out sharply 
from the others. The slopes up from the railroad were very 
abrupt. 

Four miles out of Thistle I passed Castilla. Yesterday, I 
was told that there was a hotel there where I could stay last 
night; lucky I didn’t try to. The hotel is weary, and in one of 
the swimming pools grass and weeds are growing up through 
the water. The only sign of life was one dirty-grayish sheep 
nibbling round. Half a mile before Castilla, passed a little 
grove where a dozen or more little old sheds or cabins were. 
Perhaps these were the original Castilla Springs houses for 
guests, before the hotel was built. A man standing at the 
crossing near the cabins looked like a tramp, but wasn’t; no 
tramp could say “Good morning” the way he did. I can imagine 
myself having come on to Castilla and getting there just at 
dusk, expecting to find a place to stay! Luck again. 

Passed the “Division Dam” of the Reclamation Service 
for Strawberry Valley. A woman there was wildly slapping 
a horsewhip at something in the air. Perhaps she was trying to 
drive off bees or wasps, and perhaps she saw the “tramp 
woman” a-coming along, and thought she would prevent the 
tramp stopping by lashing the air with a whip. 

Before Mapleton, the canyons widened into a valley, just 
where the right-hand and left-hand tracks parted company and 
went far apart. I took the right-hand, thinking it was the 
west-bound track, but soon saw a west-bound train on the other 
one. A mile from their parting-place, came to Mapleton, and 
learned that there had been a derailment, which accounted for 
the west-bound train on the east bound track. Soon I passed the 
wrecking-train, but nothing was left of the wreck except one 
freight-car that the wrecking crew were burning up beside the 
track. 

Had lunch at Springville,—a town of brick and cement 
houses, most one-storey or a storey and a half, with lots of trees. 
The town has wide, well-shaded streets. Good transportation 
facilities, of which the people seem very proud. An electric 
railway runs up the main street and on to Provo; two railroads 
run through the town, the Rio Grande and the Interurban (run¬ 
ning north), and a “jitney bus” running south. 'The Interurban 
parallels the Denver & Rio Grande. 

Before Springville were more ashy-colored mounds. For 
a time, the mountains ahead to the right, beyond and higher 
than those at the foot of which Provo lies, showed white on the 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


281 

peaks—probably snow. (And the Sierras are many miles a- 

head of me.) 

Springville is on the upper edge of the Utah Valley. But 
I was well past the town before I could see Utah Lake on the 
left, connected with Salt Lake by the river Jordan. 

Got to Provo on the Provo River, a town well spread out 
over the Valley, with the Wasatch Mountains close to it on the 
right. It has nine or ten thousand population, and is said to 
be one of the wealthiest of Mormon towns. Brigham Young 
Academy is located here; and here was established the first 
woolen mill west of the Mississippi. It has wide streets, and 
a street-car line. 

The Postmaster signed at 6:40 p.m. I had a good and a 
big dinner at a cafe: large combination salad, omelet, baked 
potato, and tea, in a booth; good service, too. And here I have 
hot and cold water (really hot and really cold) and steam heat, 
—and the heat is on. 

It must have been cold weather down here, for everyone 
has his (or her) winter coat on. To-day is the first day that I 
have worn my sweater all day. Was too warm a couple of 
times, but each time a chilly wind soon came up. 

Only about 20 railroad miles to-day. The timetable miles 
and the mileposts no longer agree. The posts give the old 
mileage, before the new road was built from Soldier Summit 
down; the timetable adds that distance—between four and five 
miles,—that is, the timetable gives the mileage by the new road¬ 
bed. 

Wish I had time to stop and go up to the “Hot Pots” near 
here; but the connotation of those white mountain tops is too 
plain. 


PROVO TO RIVERTON STATION, UTAH 

Monday , October A. 

Left Provo, expecting to have to go 34 miles to Midvale 
to-day. Passed Lakota (a siding), and Geneva, a few cottages 
in some trees by Utah Lake, which used to be a summer resort, 
but wasn’t opened this year. 

It may be, as one of the boys at Soldier Summit said, that 
this valley is “the most beautiful valley you ever saw,” earlier 
in the summer, with the Oquirrh Mountains in the distance. 
But now some of the fields have been harvested, and the trees 
have lost their bright greenness. And no beauty of valley could 
make up for the odor along it in many places. It seems to be in 


282 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

the ground, where the ground is wet,—like stale swill. The 
ranch houses are shaded by tall poplars, and some of the fields- 
are protected by them on one side or several sides. 

At American Fork the Post Office was some distance from 
the railroad, and I did not tarry to go there, thinking of the 34 
miles to Midvale, and my not early start. At Lehi, where was 
built the first beet sugar factory in the West, I had a good 
dinner, and got the postmaster’s signature at 1:10 p.m. There 
I learned that Riverton had one or two hotels, so ceased rushing 
to get to Midvale before dark. 

Beyond Lehi, the railroad goes down through a deep cut in 
the hills, and then twists back and forth between them—just 
the railroad and the river. The map shows the river twisting 
and the railroad as straight—it being a railroad map—and my 
map has the railroads mixed. For five miles out of Provo, the 
D. & R. G. is on the right, and the S. P. & S. L. on the left; then 
they cross each other. 

After following the River Jordan, which the railroad cros¬ 
ses a number of times, I came out from between the hills. A- 
bout five miles from Riverton, I asked a little girl at a house 
near the railroad about the town of Riverton. She said it was 
2 Vz miles farther, and there was a hotel in the town. So I went 
along, taking my time. But when I came near the station, I 
lost hope. Half a dozen one-storey houses, most of them evi¬ 
dently two-room affairs. The telegraph operator said Midvale 
(6 miles farther) was the nearest place with a hotel. Another 
man said that a woman near the depot let travelling men who 
came along stay at her house, and undoubtedly would let me. 
She was away. I waited, and after a long wait, she drove 
home. Declined, however, to let me stay, because she “had been 
preserving and was all tired out.” Advised me to ask at some of 
the other houses. I had already asked at one house, to be told 
that they were crowded there—small house and eleven of them 
in it. But this woman said they weren’t tired like her, “for 
they didn’t do preserving.” 

It was too late to go on—too near dark. I began a house- 
to-house canvas. 

Third house: “Only two rooms and two beds, and myself 
and two boys,” the lady said. 

Fourth house: no answer to my raps. Must have seen me 
coming. 

Fifth house: only one bed, no spare bedclothes, and herself 
and husband and one child. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


283 


Sixth house: Elderly man, foreign; his wife was away, and 
he said it would “look bad” if he let me stay. 

Seventh house: Danes, who took me in. Very foreign. 
Aged-looking little woman, who said she was 64, but looked 
twenty years older, probably from illness. The man looked 
hardly fifty. Kind of a store in the front room,—the kitchen 
back of that, and a room back of the kitchen. We sat in the 
kitchen and talked, and ate the supper that the man got ready, 
and later I slept there on a lounge,—and mighty glad to get it! 
The woman had been ill for over three months, and had only 
been sitting up during the last three days. Said she had asthma 
and heart trouble; but I think it was tuberculosis. In the back 
yard was a prairie schooner, the wheels sunk deep in the dirt, 
and a light rig. One could visualize this couple, years before, 
driving across the plains in that schooner, and at first using 
it for a house, and the planning when they were able to put up 
a real house of lumber. The inevitable hens were around, of 
course. After supper, I washed the dishes, and wished I could 
do something really helpful for the feeble little woman. 

The Dane was greatly interested in my trip. He was 
intelligent, and asked many questions about it. His “Yah—you 
bet!” came into my story every little while. Great contrast 
between the “What do you get out of it—why do you do it if you 
don't get paid for it?” and this foreign ex-section-hand's appar¬ 
ent understanding of the reason that one would like to take a 
trip like this. 

Got past Utah Lake at American Fork. The River Jordan 
connects that Lake with Salt Lake, curving back and forth. 
Surely in the State of the Mormons: Jordan River, Mount Moab. 

Lehi and American Fork are beet sugar growing places. 

About 29 miles to-day, 28 from Provo to Riverton Station, 
and I must have wandered round another mile or so. 

RIVERTON STATION TO SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH 

Tuesday , Ocotber 5. 

After a breakfast that the Dane got ready (his wife doesn’t 
get up early), I left about 8 o'clock. On the table was an old 
Salt Lake paper, in which was advertised two Riverton Hotels! 
He said they were in the town of Riverton, about two miles 
south I 

Asked how much I owed him: “Fifty cents.” I handed 
him a dollar, which he put in his pocket: 

“Thank you. Yah, I got no change.” 


284 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


Through more ranches, to Midvale, where there are large 
smelters. Stopped there for lunch, though it was early. 

At Murray I crossed over to the State Road. Ahead was 
the Capitol, at first rather misty. I had forgotten, in my long 
railroad and countryside walking, how dusty State highways 
are. Kept the wagon road for a couple of miles, and then went 
back to the railroad, and later the highway again. 

Coming by the State Road, the City looks to be built on a 
slope of the hills, and seems as if one could see the whole city. 
The residence section runs far back on the lower part of the 
hills back of the city. It appears like a very busy place,— 
whether because it is so long since I have been in a city of 
ninety thousand population, or whether it is really such a hust¬ 
ling place, I don’t know. The streets in the center of the 
business section are decorated with flags—some kind of fair 
or anniversary. The boys at Soldier Summit were talking 
of coming down to the celebration. 

The assistant Postmaster signed my slip at 2:50 p.m., and 
asked questions about my walk. Time changes here to Pacific 
Time, but he gave me mountain time on the slip. Have set my 
Ingersoll back an hour. Had a good supper at a restaurant. 

I looked up the mother of the construction-train girl; she 
was, of course, glad to see some one who had recently seen her 
daughter. 


SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH 

Wednesday , October 6. 

Yesterday, I bought a desert water bag and put it to soak. 
But after soaking in water all day it leaks,—not an ooze, but a 
real leak—a tiny stream. Took it back and the man in the 
store refused to give me my money back. He hadn’t any other 
small desert bag, and of course I didn’t want a large one. So I 
got a small United States army canteen at another store. Also 
did a lot of smallware shopping. Among other things laid in 
some desert supplies; an electric flashlight, adhesive tape, inner 
soles, and amber glasses. The pair of colored glasses I brought 
from home I lost; I think they slipped out while I was looking 
for something in my bag. Found a good restaurant, and feel 
as if I had eaten enough for a week; but alack! to-morrow I 
shall be hungry for good food again. 

Yesterday, I made only 17 railroad miles; though the cross¬ 
ing back and forth to the wagon road added some distance, as did 
my walking round here,—a couple of miles anyway. Ought not 



THE SALT DESERT 



SALT BEDS NEAR SALDURO 
Twenty-nine miles to-day all over the salt beds” 














TO SAN FRANCISCO 


285 


to be tired and lazy to-day, but I am, and have stayed here. Got 
a few letters. Finally, have written to the Pueblo Postmaster 
asking him to forward my straw bag; suppose it's gone long 
ago, though. 

It seems rather cold here, except in the sun. Altitude, 
42124 feet. The farther off peaks of the Wasatch Mountains 
looked to have bits of snow on them yesterday and the day be¬ 
fore; that accounts for the chill down here. 

Renewed my acquaintance with some of the buildings in 
the city, including the Tabernacle and the outside of the temple, 
—all of it an outsider may view. My interest is not so keen as 
it was on my two former visits. I sauntered round the 
ten square acres of Temple Square, and once more saw what 
a mere Gentile is allowed to see. My interest in these things 
seemed dulled, but the city itself interests me as it never did be¬ 
fore. I have been sauntering down the streets watching the 
busy hustle of those who probably have been here yesterday and 
for hundreds of yesterdays, and will be rushing round here to¬ 
morrow and for hundreds of to-morrows. While I—I will be 
trekking toward the “Great American Desert/’ now merely the 
“Great Salt Desert.” But I don’t envy them: I shall never 
again be content to stay put, when there are so many thou¬ 
sands of miles of country and so many beautiful things to 
see on foot. One can’t see them from an automobile or train. 
The busy city people have some advantages; I have more. 

A telegram from the East says: “Making good time you are. 
Do you see the Golden Gate?” 

A September 27 clipping says the Presidential Range in 
New Hampshire is snowbound; and on the 26th the cog-rail¬ 
way train after getting nearly up Mt. Washington, had to give 
up the trip—the first time in many years. 

And the Sierras are a long way ahead of me yet. Looking 
at the map, I realize that I am only about eighty miles farther 
west than I was nine days ago at Green River, Utah, notwith¬ 
standing that I have travelled about two hundred miles. And 
I don’t think I’m a mile farther west than I was two nights ago. 
But to-morrow—to-morrow I start straight west almost. 

Have heard a most unpleasant story: that the coyotes in 
Nevada have rabies. Sincerely hope that it is only a report. 
Now that I have got over the dread of coyotes with which I 
started out,—to think of this much worse dread being added! 
Had begun to have a friendly feeling for them. If M were 
sure they had rabies in Nevada, I believe I should give up the 
trip right here. When I have heard of a dog with rabies in 


286 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


Washington, I have been afraid to walk down the streets for 
a week. 


SALT LAKE CITY TO GARFIELD, UTAH 

Thursday , October 7. 

I was late getting started (usually am after a day when I 
don’t walk). Left between 9 and 10, and then wandered all 
over Salt Lake to find the right way west. (It’s “Salt 
Lake” here; one never hears the “City” tacked on when the 
city is spoken of.) One man told me the west-going rail¬ 
road ran out of the south of the city; the next one, that the rail¬ 
road going south was the east-bound one. Both right; the 
eastbound trains go out of the south of the city, and the west¬ 
bound, out southwest. Only four railroads run southwest for 
me to get mixed up on. And I did. Finally took a rusty and 
dilapitated single track, which a man said was the one I wanted. 
Anyway, I have got here to Garfield. 

When I got away from the city, I once more started west, 
not north or northwest as for so many days past. 

So hazy to-day that I could see only the tops of the moun¬ 
tains on the left and none on the right (where there are none, 
I believe). By the middle of the afternoon, the sun was like 
a yellow ball in the haze. 

Met a man and woman with guns, as I came out of Salt 
Lake City; the man said Delle and Low are the only places 
between Grants and Wendover where there is a house. Begins 
to look like a railroad tie-pile for me. 

The valley is very level, a bunch of yellowing green trees 
here and there indicating a house. At one place, the railroad 
ran for several hundred feet through a dried-up place all white 
with salt. 

Was chilly at first this morning; then hot. Now—6 p.m.— 
it is chilly again. No steam in this hotel where I am. 

Garfield is about 14V 2 miles by railroad from Salt Lake 
City. But I started so late and wandered round so much that 
it was 3:40 before I got to the Post Office here, too late to go 
the other 17 miles to Grants, the next railroad station. Count¬ 
ing the wandering round in Salt Lake City, probably about 17 
miles for me to-day. Garfield is quite a large town of one- 
storey houses; has about six hotels, they say. All round are a 
lot of little peaked mounds. Here is one of the big smelters of 
the country, and the largest concentrating mills in the world. 

Have a horrid influenza cold. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


287 


There is no key to my door, but the woman who runs the 
hotel assured me: 

“You needn’t be afraid, there’s a woman in the next room.” 
Think I should prefer a man in the next room, in case a burglar 
came to burgle. It would be tragic to lose my little black bag 
with colored specs, and my water canteen, in view of the desert 
ahead of me. 

Winter must be on the way—my fingers are just stiff with 
the cold, trying to write. And the Sierras are ahead of me. 

GARFIELD TO GRANTS, UTAH 

Friday , October 8. 

Had choice of two routes to-day: to cross Salt Lake on the 
Western Pacific Railroad cut-off, or to go round the bottom 
of the lake through Grantsville,—a little longer. Time seems 
precious now,—two deserts and the Sierras to cross,—and I de¬ 
cided on the railroad across the lower end of the lake. 

It was so cold in Garfield that I went shopping and got 
warmer clothing. But by the middle of the day it was hot, hot. 
Hazy, except for an hour or two after starting out. Could 
hardly discern the outline of the right-hand mountain ranges 
in the hazy sky; though now’ I am doubtful if they were not 
clouds, rather than mountains. On the left, the tops of the 
range were above the haze. 

The railroad, though some distance out in the lake from 
the shore, follows the Southern shoreline in a great curve. I 
had to walk on the ties themselves, the roadbed was so filled 
with broken stone. Stopped and soaked my feet in Salt Lake 
once. 

Met a man on the Salt Lake roadbed (he had passed me 
earlier on his little track motor), who gave me a list of places 
where there are hotels across Utah and Nevada. Great help. 
Said he would have stopped when he passed me, but that he 
knew I wasn’t riding and that I would have to pass him later. 
Tells me to cross to the Southern Pacific tracks at Deeth, be¬ 
cause that being an older road than the Western Pacific, is 
better built-up near the stations. 

Hear that a man is walking backwards from San Francisco 
to New York, on a big wager; that he is telling how terribly ex¬ 
hausting the trip is, etc. He has a mirror attached to his 
shoulder, so that he can see back of him; also has a man with 
him. He passed this part of the country by way of Grantsville 


288 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


a few days ago; did not attempt the Western Pacific cut-off 
across Salt Lake. 

There were no trestles to amount to anything on the rail¬ 
road to-day; several very short ones, but the water is so near 
the track that they didn't seem like trestles at all. Not that 
I should want to have to jump off into the Lake, but it is a great 
comfort to have the trestles so low. Several trains passed, 
but there was plenty of space for me on the rocks at the side of 
the track. 

At Grants to-night, only about I 6 J /2 miles to-day. Am at a 
cute little one-storey hotel, run by a pleasant young woman and 
her husband. The station agent signed for me at 3:45 moun¬ 
tain time; no post office here. 

To-morrow I make Low Pass; and then—Ho, for the Great 
Salt Desert! 


GRANTS TO LOW PASS, UTAH 

Saturday, October 9. 

(Written October 10.) 

Left Grants for Timpie, where I stopped and had a drink 
of water; found a son of Erin’s Isle there to chat to. Timpie 
it locally known as “Big Springs”; while on my map it is 
“Gimpie”—Mapographical error, probably. The name Timpie 
is part of the Indian name for the place,—Timpie Wickup, 
“Rock House.” I had crossed the Stansbury Range, which 
comes out of the south (on my left), drops out of sight under 
land and water and reappears on the right as Stansbury Island 
in the Lake. 

Went on to Delle, where the postmaster signed at 11:45 
a.m. Had lunch there with the station agent’s wife and the 
railroad man I met yesterday on Salt Lake cut-off. 

From Delle, got nearer and nearer the hills, passing Skull 
Valley (nice name!) on my left. Gradually up to Low Pass; 
Low is the station. At Grants, they had told me the section 
foreman and his wife (Mexicans) at Low Pass might let me 
stay at their house over night. 

Low Pass is a low pass, 4602 feet elevation; can see very 
little but other hills. It is the pass between the Lakeside Moun¬ 
tains on the north, and the Cedar Mountains on the south. 

The station agent (who was “baching” in the station) said 
there wasn’t any place I could stay, and he was sure I didn’t 
want to stay at the Mexican house. While we talked, a man 
and woman came over from the “sheep camp,” as they called 



KNOLLS AND SALT 













TO SAN FRANCISCO 


289 


it, where they were camped in a prairie schooner, their son 
and two big dogs in a tent. Where they were camping, near 
the station, they said was “Hale’s Sheep Camp,” though I saw 
neither sheep nor camp. A camp isn’t always a camp, but is a 
place where people do camp when they want to. Mrs. Hale said 
I could get supper and breakfast with them. 

After supper, they arranged matters: she and I to sleep 
in the prairie schooner; the boy and his father in the tent. 
They said I could have the tent to myself if I had rather; but the 
son (who I surmise didn’t like giving up his tent) said the dogs 
always pushed into it in the night and might frighten me. 
The dogs were very tall and slim—wolf hounds, I think,—shaped 
like grey hounds, but larger and a little shaggyish. While I 
was talking to Mrs. Hale at the station, the larger one came 
and stood right in front of me, and his head was almost up in 
my face. I passed muster, evidently, for he was friendly after¬ 
wards. 

Mrs. Hale said when she saw me coming along the railroad, 
she rushed to her husband with the news, “A woman—a woman 
is coming!” He laughed at her: she must be mistaken, because 
no woman would be up on the pass, except safely within the 
shelter of the passing trains. 

Coyote stories. Mrs. Hale says it’s true they have rabies 
in Nevada. It is enough. I sever all diplomatic relations with 
coyotes; rather, shall not get on speaking terms with them; 
they are in bad repute. 

Grants to Low Pass, 30% miles by railroad; came mostly 
that way. Was weighed to-night: 113% pounds. From Canyon 
City, Colorado, to Low Pass, Utah, took V/z pounds toll. Will 
try to remember to get weighed at Reno, Nevada. 

LOW TO BARRO, UTAH 

Sunday , October 10. 

Last night, the wind blew. It threw small pebbles into the 
bed. When I first felt them, it puzzled me how they got there. 
The front of the schooner was open, and the back partly open, 
so the wind had a sweep through. It blew straight in the 
front of the wagon, and rattled the dishpan till it fell off its 
nail and then blew outside. 

I had always wanted to have a personal acquaintance with 
a prairie schooner, but never had expected to have a chance to 
get so well acquainted. The table is hinged to the wall, and 
fastens up out of the way when not in use. There is a small 


290 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


stave in the wagon, and hooks round the walls.. The bed was 
a mattress on boards laid crossways in the wagon. One of the 
boards fell down, and Mrs. Hale had to get up and fix it. 

I certainly had a wakeful night. But, after all, I’m not sure 
whether it was the wind that kept me awake and while lying 
awake I thought of coyotes all night, or whether the thoughts 
of rabid coyotes kept me awake, and I heard and felt the wind 
blowing so hard. Result was the same: feeling exhausted this 
morning. Had I known about the mad coyotes before I left 
Washington, I never would have started on this trip. But 
only one state to cross before California—I won’t give it up 
now! 

Got off at 7:10' a.m. (Pacific Time), expecting to go only 
to Knolls, where live a Japanese and his wife that I was told 
might let me stay over night. Just after starting passed Mrs. 
Hale’s son, who had taken his horse early and rode off to his 
traps. He had been up at the Pass during vacation time trap¬ 
ping coyotes; his father and mother had driven up to take the 
skins home in the wagon. He held up a very long skin he had 
just taken off a coyote; said it was about the largest he had 
got this summer. 

After sveral miles, I began to go down to Clive at the west¬ 
ern foot of the pass—supposed to be. But it seems level for 
miles before Clive. Stopped at Clive (elevation 4282 feet), and 
the Japanese there gave me water. 

At Knolls, got lunch at the Japanese house. The man 
seems to be kind of a railroad agent; had a small roll top desk 
in the room; his wife talks no English. They wouldn’t take 
pay, so I gave it to their little girl. Pleasant people. They had 
Japanese visitors. I asked about Barro—if I could stay there 
over night. Their visitors were from Barro; had the house there. 
They said they had no extra furniture; if I stayed I would have 
to sleep on a mattress on the floor; this, provided they went 
home. I thankfully agreed to sleep on the floor. Their doubt 
of getting home was on account of the wind—they had come up 
in a handcar, and if the wind blew very hard, it could hardly 
be worked. 

I left Knolls at 3:45, for the ten-mile walk to Barro. The 
handcar overtook me, and took my bag along. I gave them 
my raincoat to put over the two children, a baby and a small 
boy of a couple of years. It had sprinkled rain before the 
handcar overtook me, and blew hard all the way down—wind in 
my face. The handcar went on, and I was alone again. It got 
dark, but when the people arrived at the house, they promptly 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


291 


put a light in the window for me, and seeing that gleam ahead 
was something worth while—it meant shelter from the desert 
and the dark. How I did slouch along toward it on the double 
quick; even so, it was a mile or two after dark when I got there. 

They gave me supper, they themselves eating rice and 
bacon with chopsticks; they tried to get their little boy to eat 
with a spoon, but he insisted on being fed with chopsticks. 
(Wonder if the spoon was a concession to me). They brought 
me to this little room, where there is a bed^ In a few mnutes, 
they came to the door with some delicious candy. I momen¬ 
tarily wondered if it was doped, but decided to eat it; had they 
been any foreigners except Japanese, I would not have taken 
chances. 

The wind is blowing through every crack and broken pane 
in the place. 

The salt beds begin at Knolls. Walked from there to here 
on them; fine walking. To-day, 31 railroad miles. 

Knolls station is named from the “California Knolls.” A 
party, with outfit and horses, started down this way to reach 
California, long ago. Many of the animals and some of the 
men died on these salt beds. Of one party,—I’m not quite sure 
whether it was this same party or not—all died, down here on 
the salt beds, except three men. They thought the salt beds 
were water, and horses and men died wandering from one point 
to another, trying to reach the apparent water that was always 
in sight, and always receded as they went toward it. Of the 
three that lived, two went insane and were kept in a stockade 
the rest of their lives; the third man told the story. Mr. Hale 
found relics of the party, he said: chains so rusted that the 
links wouldn’t bend, and a gun from which all the wood had 
decayed. These relics are now in the museum at Salt Lake City. 

BARRO TO WENDOVER, UTAH 

Monday, October 11. 

The Japanese at Barro refused to take any pay, so I 
gave it to their little boy; but the father returned part of it, 
“Too much, too much,” he said. The woman couldn’t speak 
English at all, and the man not very much. He got me breakfast 
of bacon and fried potatoes, while they again ate rice and bacon. 
Just as I left, the woman came to the door with several 
little packages of chewing gum for me. 

Left Barro at 6:30 Pacific Time. Passed Arinosa, a sta¬ 
tion where the only sign of life was a great black cat with very 


292 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

green eyes in the half-open window of the station, teetering 
on its feet ready to jump at any untoward movement of mine— 
whether it meant to jump at or away from me, I don t know and 
didn’t stop to find out. 

At Salduro I had lunch, for which the young man who runs 
the eating house for the salt-works hands refused pay, because 
he had “never yet taken money from a woman for a meal.’ 
His cook did much tramping before stopping there to cook, the 
cook himself told me. There is a salt plant near. Farther 
away from the railroad, the salt is pure. Told me stories of be¬ 
ing followed in the woods for days by a pack of coyotes that 
smelled his grub, but they were too cowardly to attack him 
night or day. 

The Wendover postmaster signed at 4:15 p.m. Wendover 
is just on the Nevada line. The very Southern corner of the 
“Desert Range” comes down to it. Twenty-nine miles to-day, 
all over the salt beds, at about 4200 feet elevation. 

Stories of rabid coyotes. It is said one ran into the round¬ 
house at Imlay, and attacked a man sitting there; they killed it. 
They tell me if the coyotes are not running, I may know they 
are not mad. I wish people would keep the stories to them¬ 
selves. Perhaps there was only one rabid animal, and the 
story spread. At Elko one ran snapping round the streets, 
biting horses. How could it without being killed immediately! 

The salt beds are wonderful. They were just like im¬ 
mense blue lakes, ahead of and back of me. The knolls were 
like islands—the shimmer of the air on the salt was just like 
water washing the edges of the islands. Wonderful seems a 
tame word to express the wondrous effects—apparently 
islands and shimmering sea. Looking ahead, the water seemed 
to lap the edges of the knolls, and the telegraph poles to be 
standing in a quiet lake. No matter what the part just walked 
over has been, the telegraph poles ahead were certainly in 
water. But as I walked, the apparent water-line kept receding 
ahead of me and following back of me. In places, there must 
be alkali mixed with the salt, or dusted over the top of it, as 
it looks like sandy beach running down to the apparent water- 
edge,—the beautiful blue expanse, with its sharply defined is¬ 
lands. It is very easy to understand how the Hastings party 
kept following the ever-receding water. It isn’t a mirage—it’s 
just the air shimmering over the clear salt beds. 

My second desert,—“the great American Desert”—is passed. 
Next to mountains for strangeness and beauty are the deserts. 



“My second desert is passed” 
Apparently islands and shimmering sea 




























TO SAN FRANCISCO 


29 % 

WENDOVER, UTAH, to SHAFTER, NEVADA 

Tuesday , October 12. 

From the little hotel at Wendover I went over to the rail¬ 
road station for breakfast this morning, where there is a 
lunch-room, and this is what I had: three cups of coffee, wheat 
cakes, and a big coffee cake. Got a lunch and took with me,— 
two cups of coffee in my water bottle, and three big doughnuts. 

Left Wendover at 6 a.m. It was cold, a little, but no wind. 
Got quite warm by noon. 

On leaving Wendover, I turned the corner of the Desert 
Range. There, to my left, below the railroad and a little dis¬ 
tance away, just over the Nevada line, were two saloons. 
Wendover is “No license.” A man in the door of one waved his 
hand in greeting and farewell. 

Wendover is just at the west edge of the Salt Desert and 
at the beginning of the mountains. Less than a mile out of 
town, I left the railroad, according to directions given me 
a couple of days ago, and followed the Postal Telegraph poles 
(the “split poles”) up across the mountain. They crossed the 
range between two sharp high little peaks. 

Looking back from there, the salt beds showed up, as far 
as I could see, like an ocean. Ahead of me was the valley, be 
tween those hills and the next range. Very glad I took the 
crosscut, on account of the view. It cut out Ola, Nevada, which 
was on the map; away down to my left were a couple of little 
section-houses, which represented, I suppose, that place. 

Kept a sharp lookout for coyotes: a long gray one appeared 
not far away in the bushes. We stood and watched each other, 
I pointed my revolver at him, and he trotted off into the bushes. 

“If they’re not running, they’re not mad,” I kept saying to 
myself. 

On the west side of the peaks, I went back to the railroad, 
and took an old road that runs close beside the track, sometimes 
stony walking. I saw Pilot station ahead across the valley, and 
made for it down the line. Six miles beyond, and up a grade, 
was Proctor. From there I took “a short-cut,” “a cut-off,” 
“the old track,”—as it had been variously described to me. 

Near the top of this old grade, I sat down with my back 
close under the cut in the railroad bank, and ate my lunch. 
Coyotes wouldn’t be likely to descend on me from above or 
the top of the opposite bank, and I could watch up and down 
the tracks. This old grade saved me several miles on the rail¬ 
road, but I lost one of them on the summit. I took the wagon 


294 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


road for a while, and then turned back, and took the railroad 
again. The “hairpin” loop that I escaped by the old grade is 
Arnold’s Loop. Silver has been found in the new cut made for 
the railroad. 

Pilot mountain, “the Fujuami of the Nevada desert,” 
stands out sharply. From Pilot, looking to the right, the salt 
beds looked like grayish snow,—probably the alkalied part of 
them. It is near here that the trainmen point out the “mirage” 
to the passengers, where can be seen, between the hills, the edge 
of the salt desert and the alkali, and passengers imagine they 
are seeing a “mirage”, where really they are seeing the actual 
salt desert itself. 

Going up to the summit of this range, the Taona Range, 
seems very mountainlike; quite unlike Low Pass, which isn’t 
like a pass in the mountains at all. Silver Zone Pass, at the 
summit, is 5850 feet high. The tops and sides of the peaks 
are dotted with stunted fir trees. 

From Silver Zone Pass I attempted to go down to the 
valley by a wagon road, but after a mile turned back and took 
the railroad down into Goshute Valley,—a wide valley covered 
with sagebrush, coyotes and rabbits. I saw more rabbits in this 
valley than I have seen in all the rest of my life. Near 
Shafter, in a slight hollow near the railroad, a swarm of them 
scurried away from me as I passed. 

From Silver Zone siding, straight ahead six miles, a coal 
elevator at Shafter stood out; the track slants down, and then 
apparently up again, to Shafter (5583 feet elevation). But 
Silver Zone siding and Shafter are both well into the valley. 

Before getting to Shafter, I heard a yi-yi-yi-ing close at 
hand on the other side of the railroad (I was walking down on 
one side, and the tracks were raised a few feet), so close that 
I didn’t recognize the noise as coyotes till I got up on the rail¬ 
road to see what was making the distressful noise; thought 
some one might have been knocked off the track by a passing 
train. There were five coyotes, about the size of the Zoo ones, 
close to the railroad, sitting in a circle with noses in the air] 
howling. They saw me, and sauntered off into the sagebrush' 
I yanked out my revolver from the top of my little bag, and got 
down off the track on my own side in a great hurry. Just be¬ 
fore hearing them, I had passed the “Station one mile” sign and 
had felt quite safe. 

Soon a light engine passed, and then a train; so I felt some¬ 
what better. Not that, if a semi-rabid coyote should run at me, 

I imagined there was any protection because an engine or a 



PILOT MOUNTAIN, NEVADA 
“The Fujisan of the American Desert” 

The view that, to passenger trains, is pointed out as a mirage 








TO SAN FRANCISCO 


295 


train came by, but just they gave a companionable feeling. 
Then, too, I was very near the station. 

Shafter has a station, a post-office (which is a tent at¬ 
tached to the back of a tiny house), the section house (run by 
Americans; where I had a good supper and am staying over 
night), the bunk house, another little house or two, and a saloon 
and store combined. Round the saloon are tiny cottages (or 
sheds), where the sheep men stay when they bring their sheep 
down to the railroad, Shafter being a shipping point for sheep. 
The Nevada Northern and the Western Pacific railroads cross 
here. 

When I went to write my postals at the post office window, 
I got one of those terribly sick spells and had to leave the 
postmaster in the middle of a sentence and go out and sit on the 
doorstep. I have had these before, at postoffices at the end of 
a day, and had to ask for a chair. When I went in again and 
apologized for leaving so suddenly, he suggested it was holding 
both arms up (to write at the office window), after their having 
been hanging down all day; that the blood rushed back on my 
heart so fast it was too much for the heart to take care of. I 
guess he has hit it right; it has puzzled me. 

Railroad from Wendover to Shafter is about 40% miles. 
I reduced the distance some by the cut-off; perhaps 38 miles 
to-day. Postmaster signed here at 4:30 p.m. Mailed package 
of Daily IPs. 

This whole Shafter Valley seems to be full of coyotes. 
Before supper, sitting at a window, when I watched any parti¬ 
cular point for a while, sagebrush colored things would cross 
that point. Their grayish-brown color is like the sagebrush 
itself. For some time, I watched a man rushing round with a 
stick, apparently trying to knock over a rabbit for supper; and 
from my somewhat higher viewpoint, I could see also those 
coyote forms sauntering round not far from him, evidently al¬ 
ways keeping out of his sight. 

SHAFTER TO TOBAR, NEVADA 

Wednesday, October 13. 

Last night, Mrs. Section-house said they didn’t have break¬ 
fast till 6 (which I knew meant nearer 7), when I said I wanted 
to get away early. So I said I must start at 6 even if I went 
without breakfast, and asked if she would leave some cold coffee 
and bread and butter on the table. Then she said that they got 
up at 5 and she would give me breakfast early. They did get 


296 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

up early, and by six she had two eggs boiled, some cream of 
wheat, and coffee ready, which I ate in about ten minutes, 
anxious to get away. 

There' is just one child of school age in Shafter,—her 
youngest daughter. The girl says she can claim to be the belle 
of Shafter, as she is the only unmarried young woman in the 
place. She used to be postmaster also. Every one except the 
saloon man and his helper (unless the postmaster is an ex¬ 
ception) works for one of the railroads. Three white men 
board at the section house; the Mexican section hands live at the 
bunk-house. 

The lady of the section house, when, after breakfast I went 
to take water out of the water-pail to fill my water-bottle, said 
I could “Get water out of the hydrant by the shed across 
there.” Seems to me it wouldn’t have taken so very much out of 
her pail to fill my two-quart bottle! And, somehow, it was 
awfully hard to walk across the open to the shed; felt as if a 
rabid coyote might spring at me,—notwithstanding I knew that 
in a few minutes I should have to start off and leave the shelter 
of the little bunch of houses behind. 

Left Shafter at 6:15. I crossed the rest of the valley, going 
southwest, and began winding up “Flower Lake Pass.” The 
red and yellow ochre cuts in the hill through which the train 
runs are positively dazzling to pass through in some places,— 
the red and yellow on both sides high over my head. 

Going up the east side of the Pass, far across—miles a- 
eross—in the Valley, I saw first one tiny spot that meant a 
ranch house, and then another,—far apart, and still farther 
away from me; but the little spots gave a feeling of companion¬ 
ship. In the middle of the valley was a tiny spot that looked 
like water, and beyond it a little streak; but looking round that 
alkali-sagebrush waste it didn’t seem possible there was such 
a thing as water. However, a line that indicated a road leading 
toward the tiny spot suggested the possibility that it was water, 
—of course, the spot was too far away to see whether the road 
continued to it or not. Later, on the map I saw that the two 
spots are labeled “Flowery Lake”; so they really were water. 

This pass is over the north end of the Goshute Mountains. 
After a sharp curve at the top, the tunnel “a straight 5665 
feet in length,” though it seems to me on the tunnel itself the 
length is given as 5642 feet. From either end I could see the 
whole length of the tunnel—the farther opening appearing 
very small. This pass is the highest point on the Western 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


297 


Pacific Railroad—5907 feet elevation. It takes passenger 
trains three minutes to go through. 

I had picked up a few pieces of dry sticks to help light me 
on the way through the tunnel; also with the advice in mind of 
my tramp to Canon City—that a wild animal in a narrow place 
like a tunnel would turn and retreat before lighted sticks. 
After stumbling against the rail a few times, first on one side 
and then on the other, I got so far into the tunnel that no light 
at all came in from the end. I lit a stick; but the draught blew 
it out; the sticks wouldn’t keep lighted. So I got out my little 
electric flashlight that I had bought in Salt Lake City. Its 
purchasewas justified just for the use it was going through that 
one long tunnel. I didn’t keep it burning steadily, for fear 
the battery would give out before I got through, for it takes 
me some minutes to navigate a tunnel that it takes a train three 
minutes to get through. Hadn’t got my light out before enter¬ 
ing, because, as it was a straight tunnel, I thought I would need 
a light only perhaps for the centre. But, a very short distance 
in, there wasn’t a gleam of light by which I could see the rails— 
everything was pitchy dark, except for the little round light 
spaces, one ahead and one back of me, that showed the two ends 
of the tunnel. 

I got through the tunnel—warm and somewhat short of 
breath—and to the switch at Jasper (5876 feet elevation, a short 
distance outside the western end) when I met an eastbound 
freight. Had the freight been three minutes earlier, it would 
have caught me in the tunnel. A miss is as good as a mile,—I 
was mighty glad of the miss. Think of getting caught in the 
middle of a mile-long tunnel by a long, slow freight! 

The railroad and I curved round toward the right, part way 
down the side of the mountain, before starting across Inde¬ 
pendence Valley; having turned to the northwest, at just about 
right angles to the way I was traveling in the morning. Before 
starting across the valley, I sat on the end of a tie and ate the 
doughnut I had left over from yesterday. Didn’t pass any place 
where I could beg, borrow, or steal a lunch. 

Spruce Mountain was far to the left,—a long way. Across 
the valley was a range of hills, and the East Humboldt Range 
beyond. The nearer hills are the Owyhee Range; and farther 
off, to the southwest, the Ruby Range—really mountainous 
looking mountains, mottled greenish, purplish, and reddish. 
Very small patches and streaks of white near the tops showed 
recent snow-falls. Down the side of one of the mountains in 
the Ruby range the coloring, in long streaks, was so odd that at 


208 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


first I thought it was a dim rainbow between me and the moun¬ 
tain. 

In the valley on the west side of the Pass are many spaces 
too alkali for even sagebrush to grow. 

Cloudy all day, except for a couple of hours at noon. 
Shatter to Tobar, about 33Ms miles. Got to Tobar at 4 p.m.; 
the postmaster signed at 4:30 p.m. 

Tobar, at an altitude of 5681 feet, is quite a little town— 
compared with the section-and-bunkhouse stations along the 
line. It has a suburbs—several little houses and ranches. 
Some of its one-storey buildings are of concrete, with odd top- 
finish. The postoffice is in a store. There used to be two 
hotels here; now one. Several stores have also closed up. The 
hotel looks like a big barn into which windows has been set. 

The hotel woman said, when she brought me upstairs, 
“You’ll find everything to make you comfortable in the room.” 
Her evident wish that I should be comfortable took the place of 
lacking comforts. Had a good supper. 

More coyote stories—or are they the same ones? I watch 
ahead of me, on both sides, and back of me, dreading to see a 
racing rabid coyote. I try to think it is only tales, but those 
sauntering beasts at Shatter somehow unnerved me. 

“Only one State to cross”—I keep saying it to myself and I 
suspect I sometimes say it out loud in the alkali wastes. I 
am getting nearer and nearer to the part of the State where 
the coyote trouble is. Somehow I feel that when I get across 
Nevada, and climb the Sierras into California, I shall be prac¬ 
tically to San Francisco, California is so narrow. 

Nevada is the State to which I gave most anxious thought 
before starting. Unfenced roads across cattle ranges were my 
greatest fear in looking forward to crossing the State,—not the 
remotest idea of rabies to fear crossed my mind. 

I suppose those streaks of white on the Ruby Range ought 
to make me uneasy about the Sierras yet to cross; but freezing 
in the snows seems such a simple way of dieing compared to be¬ 
ing bitten by a rabid coyote, with the resultant hydrophobia. 

TOBAR TO WELLS, NEVADA 

Thursday , October lb. 

At Tobar Hotel, the first breakfast I was told was at 
6:30. Knowing that here in the west that meant nearer 7, 
I went down to the dining room at 6.45; no sign of breakfast! 
Hotel lady said I was early, when she came into the dining room; 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


299 


but changed it to, she was late with breakfast. It was ready 
about 7. 

Just after I left the hotel, it began to rain. Went into the 
depot and put on my raincoat. Got away finally at 8:15. 

Another day mostly sagebrush, with the chance of the 
lurking horror of a coyote. But the Ruby Range was beauti¬ 
ful to see. More white on the tops than they had yesterday. 
Winter and snow is surely coming. But the prospect of even 
a snow-blocked mountain range seems inviting compared to coy¬ 
otes that may, or may not, have rabies. 

Four miles before Wells, on the left appeared a fence and 
a ploughed field; then, on the right, a fence and ploughed land. 
In less than a mile, the fences ended, and no sign of the town. 
(I knew the distance from Wells by the railroad mile posts and 
the timetables). 

Three miles from Wells—no sign of the town. I began 
to feel discouraged. 

Two miles from Wells—a really town appeared on my right. 
I knew it for a real town, because it had too many buildings to 
count from the railroad. 

When the automobile road crossed the railroad, I took the 
former. A few minutes later, wild running animals far ahead 
sent me back to the railroad. To be sure, it wasn’t fenced, but 
somehow it seemed safer. A telegraph pole might be some pro¬ 
tection. They rushed along at right angles to the railroad, back 
and forth, perhaps a mile and a half away. When they crossed 
the railroad ahead, I cut across a strip of brush and alkali to the 
auto road again, and rushed for the town; keeping down at the 
edge of the road, and stooping low, to keep the bushes, if pos¬ 
sible, between me and the clouds of dust that indicated the 
running animals. When near the town, I saw the animals 
going up a steep hill beyond the Western Pacific tracks. As 
with relief, I watched them, they turned and came rushing 
down. I was near enough to see that they must be horses— 
somehow, horses and cattle are distinguishable from each other, 
even at a great distance. But they were not near enough to see 
if they were just loose horses running amuck, or if they had 
riders. Being near the first houses of the town, I ran for 
them, trying to bend low as I ran. Reached the houses before 
the horses were near, and got to the first street of the town, 
gasping for breath. This evening, was told that four Mexicans 
had been riding crazily around outside the town, and late to-day 
had ridden into the city. 

Got here at 1 p.m.; the postmaster, who also runs the news- 


300 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

paper, signed at 1:45 p.m. The two restaurants are run by- 
Chinamen. Had my shoes soled, heeled, and the heels lined. 
Did some shopping. First place this side of Salt Lake where 
there has been hot and cold water, faint steam heat, too. 

Traveled northwest all day; am only about 16 miles from 
Tobar. Fine, but chilly. Beautiful mountain-cloud effects. 
Far-off mountains have sprinkles of snow-patches on the tops. 

Here, at Wells, at an elevation or 5631 feet, “At the base 
of the Owyhee Mountains,—before, to the right,—in the old days 
the overland emigrant camped, at Humboldt Wells, for pure 
cold water.” The Wells (Humboldt Wells) are about a hundred 
springs, mostly very small, in a meadow just beyond the town. 
Wells used to be a centre for miners, but now is more of a 
sheep and cattle shipping point. 

) 

WELLS TO HALLECK, NEVADA 

Fr-iday, October 15. 

Had breakfast early, and got away about 6:15. 

Just out of Wells, the Western Pacific begins parallel¬ 
ing the Southern Pacific, soon running close beside it, the two 
railroads seeming like one double-track railroad. Just west of 
the S. P. Depot, too, I discovered that the S. P. was fenced with 
barbed wire, and when the two roads ran close together, one 
fence was to the right of the S. P. and the other to the left of 
the W. P. A fence is sort of company. 

Less than a mile from Wells, a pack of coyotes set up a 
howling in the sagebrush, between the railroad and a ranch 
that was about a mile away, probably greeting the rising sun. 
They were near enough to see, though perhaps half a mile away. 
The cattle in the fields paid no attention to the noise. 

Not only is the S. P. fenced all the way from Wells to 
Halleck, but it has block signals. Thus to-day one of the big 
fears I started out with was no longer with me—the fear of 
range cattle being near an unfenced railroad or road, and no¬ 
where for me to escape to. If they should happen to be on the 
railroad on account of a broken fence or open gate,—why, the 
signal posts all have iron ladders from the ground to the top. 

At each signal post—truly they were “silent sentinels of 
safety” for me—I draw breath and scan the sagebrush near the 
track ahead and back of me and at the sides, for whirls of dust 
that might indicate a madly running coyote. Then, after a 
careful survey, I leave the safety of the signal post and hustle 
to the next one. I purposely do not look far from the track 



AN UNSETTLED COUNTRY 
“A sage brush-covered, unsettled country” 



NEVADA HAY 

“Nevada raises more than sagebrush and coyotes” 











TO SAN FRANCISCO 


301 


while walking, for fear I should see too much in the sagebrush; 
unless something comes near, I don’t want to see it. 

The hills and valleys of sagebrush continued to-day: but, far 
to the right, was a line of brown bushes or trees that show 
where one of the streams tributary to the Humboldt River runs. 
Later, this line was to the left; so probably some of the low 
bridges I walked over was across this stream. (Through this 
country, the low trestles are called “bridges”, high ones “tres¬ 
tles”.) Here and there in the valley crouched low ranch build¬ 
ings. Far away though they were, it was good to realize that 
houses were within half a dozen miles. 

At Starr (a siding on the W. P.) there are a couple of un¬ 
inhabited houses, and a ranch house near by. The station on the 
S. P. is Tulasco,—an open-air station, having two ends, two 
half-sides, a roof, and seats inside; it is a junction for a short 
railroad to Metropolis. Think of a “Metropolis” in the midst 
of alkali and sagebrush! However, over at the foot of the 
mountain ranges are irrigated valleys. 

At a siding where there were a couple of unoccupied houses, 
some dogs were holding a meeting; perhaps getting together to 
discuss tonight’s hunting expedition—sheep or coyotes. Two 
of them, as spokesmen, warned me off. I should have hated 
the bunch to decide I was lawful prey instead of a sheep. 
There is considerable talk through here of the dogs getting to¬ 
gether and killing sheep on the ranches. 

Deeth, 18 miles from Wells, is just a little group of houses 
and a few stores, between the two railroads. It was named for 
an old Indian trapper of this section. There I stopped at 12 noon 
for the signature of the assistant postmaster (a woman), the 
postmaster being “Gone.” Had dinner also. 

Saw the first wet water (a running stream, too) I’ve seen 
for some days, except the three tiny pools of brine on Salt 
Desert; it is one of the streams that come down from the Ruby 
Range. White salt patches in various places to-day. Farther 
away, the Ruby Range, some of the peaks of which are 11,000 
to 12,000 feet high. 

Got to Halleck at 4 o’clock. As I came near, I feared I 
should have to go across a mile or more to the other railroad, 
where there were more buildings and a station. But the “Act¬ 
ing Postmaster,” who signed at 4:15 p.m., let me stay here at 
her house all night. The Nevada women seem to be much more 
sensible than many I have met, and are very nice to me. Halleck 
is named from Fort Halleck of Indian times, and is a shipping 
point for sheep and cattle. 


302 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


This post office was worth $15 last month to the Post¬ 
master,—quite good, I think, for the place. The postmaster 
and another man are building a log house beside this one; the 
Post Office to be in the new one. There used to be a hotel here. 
It was burned down,—“the other day”, one man told me; “a 
year ago”, they say here. Across the tracks is a saloon. A 
man told me about it, and said if there wasn’t any other place 
to stay, and I didn’t mind, I could probably get to stay there. 

More mad coyote tales; and one of a dog (supposed to have 
rabies) that ran amuck and bit dogs; and of other dogs bitten 
by coyotes. The big brown hound here at the house has been 
in a fight with something, and has seemed sick for the last 
few days; they are watching him carefully and keeping him 
shut in the porch nights—trying to, rather. But the little girl 
opens the door in the night and lets him into her room. 

Fine to-day; wind (what there was of it) on my back. 
Came down about 400 feet in the 31 miles I traveled; a little 
northwestward from Wells to Starr; then southwest to here. 

HALLECK TO ELKO, NEVADA 

Saturday, October 16. 

Had a late breakfast at Halleck. Got way at 8:15. “Act-, 
ing Postmaster’s” husband told me there were three tunnels 
on the Southern Pacific, and none on the Western Pacific. 

Nevertheless, I took the Southern Pacific, which runs 
through Osino Canyon. It led away among the sagebrush 
stretches, with ranch buildings some distance away (several 
miles at least), now and then. Came to the first tunnel “1665 
feet”, and a curve in it. The length of the tunnels are marked 
over the openings. Walked in. Found my little flashlight was 
very weak; didn’t give light enough to see the ties, though, 
when turned directly on the iron rail, it made the rail glimmer 
faintly. Got past the curve that way, and so out— and very 
glad to be out. 

When I came near the second tunnel, I crossed to the 
Western Pacific, which had come over close to the S. P. The 
Western Pacific and the Humboldt River wind round and round 
the hills, afterwards coming back to the S. P., which I crossed 
back to at a couple of section houses just before the third tun- 
p e l» a straight one, “a mile long,” according to one man (it 
isnt, though), and “almost half a mile” according to the sec¬ 
tion man. I meant to walk through, but a freight train came 
through just as I got there, and the smoke didn’t clear out of 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


303 


the tunnel; so I went back to the W. P., and kept to it nearly 
to Elko; then the S. P. again. I prefer the S. P., on account of 
the signal posts, with their little ladders. 

Most of the way, at the side of the railroad, every little 
while there was yellow oats-looking stuff, tall, probably wild 
oats; and a few spaces were filled with cat-o-nine-tails, now 
blowing off in seed. The River Range was on the northwest, 
and the Elko Range on the southeast. 

Nearing Elko, the ranches were nearer to one another,— 
near for this State. A couple of miles east of Elko, on the 
right, a large building was in sight; think it must be a hotel 
for some hot springs. The present town was begun when the 
railroad was built, nearly fifty years ago. Over a mile be¬ 
yond, the emigrants used to camp on their overland journeys. 

First half of the way from Halleck to Elko, is almost dir¬ 
ectly west; then southwest; over 23 miles by the W. P. Elko 
has 5061 feet elevation. The Elko Postmaster signed at 3:10 
p.m. 

And I am at Elko, the place about which the first coyote 
story I heard in Salt Lake was told, and I’ve heard the same 
story several times since: that a coyote ran into town and went 
round biting at horses, and turned on a man that tried to whip 
him off his horses’ heels. When I heard it, I wondered how 
a coyote, mad or sane, could get into the business part of a 
city without being killed. Now I understand. 

The streets are sprinkled,—this wide main street, at least, 
is. The S. P. Railroad runs through the center of the very 
wide main street. It’s quite a little trip from one side of the 
street to the other. This hotel has steam heat and hot and cold 
water in the rooms; parlors, writing rooms, etc. To be sure, 
the lock on my door is out of order. The clerk suggested that 
I had better not lock it when I went out, as it was hard to unlock 
from the outside. As he said nothing about not locking it when 
I came in, I did so, and had to climb up to the transom and ask 
a woman to get the clerk to come up and let me out. When 
trying to unlock it, he kept telling me not to get excited! If 
he had been tramping these coyote-infested wastes, he would 
have known that a little thing like being unable to get out of a 
room wouldn’t trouble me. A trifle like a hotel door that 
won’t lock doesn’t matter. 

“Just put a chair against it,” said the clerk, after remind¬ 
ing me that he had told me not to lock the door. Oh, well; I’ve 
become expert putting chairs against unlockable doors. 

The weather these days is just ideal for walking. 


304 AFOOT AND ALOtfE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

Nevada is a horror of a State—all coyotes and sagebrush. 
But the people I meet are certainly nice, even the women. 

Got to Elko much sooner than I expected. Some of the 
night stops being over thirty miles apart has helped me to 
hustle. Hope to reach Reno, Nevada, in fifteen days, about. 
Have given Reno as my next address beyond Winnemucca,. 
where I hope to be a week from tonight. Shall be in San 
Francisco in another month,—it doesn’t seem possible. 

Every night I study the map of this coyote-infested land. 
Each day brings me a good bit farther across the State; but 
following the railroad in order to get stopping places at night 
uses up so much extra walking. 

A letter from Sprague, Washington State, cheers me: 

“Why, it seems as if you were almost here now. You are 
doing wonders. We knew you’d do it.” 

ELKO TO PALISADE, NEVADA 

Sunday, October 17. 

Left Elko at 6:30 a.m. Breakfast at Western Pacific R. R. 
station. Came down the valley of the Humboldt River, with its 
many ranches—at least, they seem many compared with other 
days. Some sagebrush stretches, and the hills thickly dotted 
with it. The river banks are covered with willows and other 
bushes for the most part, now turned brown or turning yellow. 

Some of the cuts on the railroad are through yellowish and 
reddish rock. In a few places, where the hills rise steeply,, 
weathered rocks stand out. Twice there was room for only one 
railroad and the river, so, as the Southern Pacific was there 
first and appropriated the space, the Western Pacific tunnelled 
its way through hills. In Moleen Canyon the railroad runs 
through limestone cuts. In the wider part of the valley (part 
nearest Elko), the S. P. skirts the right-hand hills and the W. 
P. the left-hand (coming west, of course.) 

There are many iron bridges over the Humboldt River; so 
many that they are numbered, “Humboldt River 23” being the 
first number I noticed, after I had crossed several. Afterwards, 
crossed numbers 22, 21, 20, 19, 18, and 17. 

About half a dozen miles before Carlin (am not sure of the 
distance just now), the S. P. goes through a straight tunnel 
1905 feet long. I came through it, too. 

Just after coming out of the 1905-foot tunnel, I was closeljr 
scanning the dreary sagebrush for coyotes, and walked into the 
rails at a switch and fell down, one knee striking each rail at 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


305 


the joint of the switch. My first thought was to get off the 
track before a train should come out of the tunnel. As I 
couldn’t get up, or even sit up, just then, the pain in my knees 
was so bad, I rolled over the rail on to the side of the roadbed. 
For a few minutes, I thought one kneecap was broken; but 
when the pain grew a little less and I could sit up, I found I 
could move both feet a little. In perhaps twenty minutes or 
half an hour, I could get up, and limped on, hoping to keep my 
knees from stiffening. 

“Carlin is the end of to-day’s walk,” I groaned to myself. 
I had meant to make Palisade, and I do hate to shorten up a 
day’s walk, for it means that much longer in the coyote country. 
The knee that was hurt most to-day is to-night better than the 
other one, probably because I saved it and let the other one do 
most of the work. It is cut; now how did it get cut through my 
clothes! I didn’t have sense enough at Carlin to ask if there 
was a drug store at that place. 

Spent perhaps half an hour talking to a railroad man and 
his wife on a track motor, just east of Carlin; was about 12:45 
when I stopped to talk with them. Had lunch at the “Railway 
Club” restaurant at Carlin. The man on the motor says the 
rabid coyote stories are true, but that a mad coyote is prac¬ 
tically blind and might pass a person without seeing anyone 
was there. If I see him first, if there is even so much as a 
bush to hide behind, he won’t see me. 

Just before Carlin, is the ice plant where the refrigerator 
cars get their ice. 

After lunch at the “Railway Club” restaurant at Carlin, 
I decided I could limp along, though I had to get up very 
slowly and carefully from the table. Left at 2 p.m. 

The valley is wider at Carlin, but beyond closes in again. 
The man on motor said I would say the canyons between Carlin 
and Palisade were the prettiest sight I ever saw. At first 
after leaving Carlin, they were just narrow canyons. About 
a mile and a half before Palisade, the Palisades—the remains 
of lava flows—begin, and continue to Palisade. The very 
steep walls are gray and green and brownish and faintly 
yellowish. In places the rocks have crumbled into sloping 
masses of brown stone. There is just room for the river and 
the two railroads between the walls. Even though not the 
prettiest canyons I ever saw, they are very beautiful. 

Palisade has tucked itself in where the canyon widens a 
little. Seems to be a very busy little burg. The Postmaster 
was in his office, and signed at 4:40 p.m. Chinamen run the 


306 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


dining room in the hotel. The supper surely was good, and 
plenty of it; the lettuce the best I ever ate. My room as usual, 
is on the railroad side of the hotel. 

It is probably just as well that I fell to-day, so long as I 
didn’t break any bones or stun myself on the iron rails. I was 
getting careless; what with the good S. P. roadbed, having got 
used to walking on the railroad, and the constant watching on 
all sides and ahead and back of me for coyotes, I haven’t been 
watching my feet lately. Now I surely will, after that tumble. 

Report has come down the line that the snowsheds at Sum¬ 
mit, California, are burning, and trains coming East will be at 
least ten hours late. 

Weather fine, as it has been all through Nevada. 

To-morrow I will not try to go farther than Beowawe. Will 
give my knees only 18 miles to do. Over 31 miles to-day. 

Am coming down slowly; Palisade is only 4844 feet ele¬ 
vation. 


PALISADE TO BEOWAWE, NEVADA 

Monday, October 18. 

Chinaman in the dining room at Palisade said breakfast 
would be ready at 6:30. At 6:50 I went out to the dining 
room, and he was just lighting the fire. A little later, went 
into the dining room again and sat by the fire until breakfast 
was ready. A late start didn’t matter, as I expected to only 
make Beowawe to-day. 

Got away at 7:45. Fine weather again for walking. A 
few large ranches in the valleys. The two railroads follow the 
Humboldt River. Near Palisade, the hills are abrupt, of green 
and brownish and yellowish rock. Most of the rest of the way, 
just sagebrush covered hills. 

“Humboldt River Bridge 16” is at Palisade. I escaped it 
by crossing the river on the wagon bridge. At Palisade is also 
a tunnel—a straight one, that I walked through. Two men 
came into it at the west end just as I went in at the east, so 
I didn’t feel as nervous as usual walking through. When they 
passed me, in fact for a minute before I met them, the tunnel 
was so dark I couldn’t see even a glimmer of the men, just 
heard their footsteps; and voices passing me in the darkness. 
That certainly is an odd thing about a long, straight tunnel: 
though I can see the light hole ahead, looking very small, where 
the tunnel ends, yet in most of the tunnel itself it is pitch dark. 

A railroad man (American) on his little three-wheeled 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


307 


track motor overtook me at one of the bridges, and we had a 
long chat. He says the coyote talk is “prunes.” At Barth, 
which I passed soon after, is a siding where a mining company 
has an office, their mine being up on the mountain. I met the 
man of the mining office on the railroad, and he said the coy¬ 
ote stories were true, and added more stories. A friend of his 
(or an acquaintance) has died of hydrophobia. Yesterday his 
brother fired at a wildly running coyote; the animal ran half 
way across the river and turned and ran back without stopping 
to drink—a suspicious circumstance, as a running animal, 
crossing a stream, usually laps the water. He himself saw 
either that coyote or another racing wildly along the canyon 
side. He carries an iron bar round with him, as well as having 
his dog. He filled my water bottle; wanted to know if I had 
had breakfast; and said I could come over to the house and 
rest. Evidently, the Nevada men aren’t so afraid of their re¬ 
putations as my friend of some weeks ago. He didn’t seem a 
bit afraid that the coyotes and bobcats would gossip if he let 
a woman rest awhile. 

Again met the railroad man on his motor as he came back 
from his rounds. Told him the mine man said the coyotes did 
have rabies; whereupon he said that man was “always seeing 
things.” He has traps out for coyotes; and says there are 
mountain lions in the canyons, but they get away as fast as 
possible when they see a human being. Although I knew his 
“poofing” at the coyote stories was only just to keep me from 
being scared, still it was comforting. 

Crossed Humboldt River Bridges, Nos. 15 to 4, inclusive. 
Some of them long. Not so very long ago, a train ran over a 
boy on one of the bridges I crossed to-day; some men crossing 
the bridge later, heard groaning, and went down and found the 
boy, dying. He said he wouldn’t tell who he was, as he had 
given his people worry enough. He died without telling. 

Short day: from Palisade to Beowawe, 17 miles. Post¬ 
master here signed at 2:35 p.m. Elevation of Beowawe is 4695 
feet. Opposite the hotel is a bare, reddish-brown, sugar-loaf 
hill, dotted with little clumps of sagebrush. 

Boawawe is the Indian name of the place. Some say, Pah- 
Ute for “babbling water”; others, that it means “gate”, being 
the gateway to the canyon above. 

Had no lunch till I got here to Beowawe. Knees were much 
better than I had thought they could possibly be to-day. 


308 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

BEOWAWE TO BATTLE MOUNTAIN, NEVADA 

Tuesday, October 19 . 

Had an early breakfast of a pitcher of cold coffee, three 
eggs, and bread and butter. Left Beowawe at 6:15 a.m. 

Yesterday morning, I heard a pack of coyotes howling some 
distance away. This morning, just one, barking and howling 
not far off. But I got around a hill, which shut off the noise, 
and I didn’t hear him any more. 

I followed down the Humboldt Valley, thickly covered with 
willow bushes, tall wild rye, and, where the valley widened, 
sage brush. West of Beowawe, the railroad and I turned north, 
—perhaps to escape “Whirlwind Valley,” which lay to the south. 

At Farrel, where the W. P. leaves the S. P. (they had been 
travelling side by side), a young man fixing the railroad lamps 
told me there was a ranch house at Argenta where I could get 
dinner. Two men were at the house; they were “baching this 
noon,” one of them said, the folks being down at Battle Moun¬ 
tain at the school. However, they let me have dinner with 
them,—they had just sat down,—and then refused to take pay 
for it. More coyote stories. Got to Argenta (over 20 miles) 
at 12.15; left at 12:45. 

Then the S. P. turned south, away from the river, and be¬ 
gan curving round the east, south, and then the west side of a 
broad valley, mostly sagebrush, but near Battle Mountain one 
or two ranches were in sight. 

The last part of to-day’s walk, the mountain far across the 
valley on the right was quite effective in its reddish and greenish 
colors. The red was probably rock and soil; the green would, I 
fear me, on nearer view be sagebrush, greasewood, and such like. 

Got here to Battle Mountain, where the postmaster signed 
at 4 p.m., after 32^ miles to-day, all on the Southern Pacific. 
Altitude is 4510 feet. 

“In the fifties miners and Indians engaged in desperate 
conflict at Battle Mountain”—hence the name of mountain and 
town. The Mountain itself, with its many mines of lead, copper, 
silver, and gold, is to the southwest. 

Left my water bottle at Beowawe. Wrote to-day to the 
Postmistress there, asking her to get it from the hotel and for¬ 
ward it to Winnemucca, and enclosed stamps for forwarding. 
Don’t know the name of the hotel, or the hotel people, so had 
to write to the Postmistress. My new gloves have blacked my 
hands, and it won’t wash off. 

This building just now rocked, and the chair I am sitting 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


309 


in rocked, too. Which reminds me that at Halleck I was told 
the earthquake shock was felt there early in October (the one 
when I was at Thistle), and that it put the W. P. telegraph 
lines out of working order. Don’t hear any commotion, so I 
must be the only one in the house that noticed the slight shock— 
if it was one. 

BATTLE MOUNTAIN TO IRON POINT, NEVADA 

Wednesday, October 20, 

Left Battle Mountain at 6:50 a.m. The mornings and 
evenings are decided chilly—cold. To-day in the middle of the 
day was quite hot for a while. 

Valmy, where I had my slip signed at 11:25 a.m., is nearly 
15 miles from Battle Mountain. Besides the pumping station 
and the post office, there is the S. P. station and section and 
bunk houses. Hunted all round, looking first for the Post 
Office, and then, when I found that, for the postmaster. The 
Postmaster is a woman, but her brother-in-law, who runs the 
pumping station, signed for me. 

No lunch to-day, because Valmy, the only station where I 
might have been able to get any, hadn’t any place where I could 
get any. 

The Western Pacific was across the valleys, and the Hum¬ 
boldt River was, too, until near Stone House. A man some 
days ago told me I could get a place to stay at Stone House. 
Lucky I didn’t plan on it: Stone House is a siding with an 
empty box car, 19 miles from Battle Mountain! 

A few large ranches through the valleys, over toward the 
Western Pacific Railroad. But cattle, even afar off, are 
better than the eternal sagebrush—with what it may contain. 
Wish I had never been told that the coyotes through here had 
rabies. 

The sides of the mountains were folded over, making 
creases—little folds and little creases—with many little rounded 
peaks above. 

The railroad man I met near Grants was right about the 
stations and stopping places so far, up to Stone House, Stone 
House is nothing, and Iron Point has no hotel; but the station 
agent and his wife are O. K. 

Got here to Iron Point, which is on an almost direct north¬ 
west line from Battle Mountain, at 4 p.m., after almost 28 
railroad miles, not counting the running round I did at Valmy. 

Mr. Station Agent has given me a list of the places with 


310 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

hotels between Iron Point and Cisco, California; and, through 
the “Carson Sink” desert (where there are no attempts, even, 
at towns), the railroad stations—only two of them, and at one 
of those, only a night operator. Also drew a sketch to show 
the “hairpin curve” in the railroad between Champion, beyond 
Truckee, and “Tunnel 13”, where I can cut off distance by 
crossing the country straight from Champion to Tunnel 13. 
A delightful little family; besides Mr. and Mrs. Station Agent, 
both Chicagoeans, who went to California to live and there 
first met each other, there is a little girl of two years and a boy 
of eight. It’s nice to find women, like this one and Mrs. Jones 
at Mounds, who do not seem to think me a highwayman in dis¬ 
guise. . _ _ 

The country round here has many Indian arrow-heads scat¬ 
tered over the desert. Visitors have found hundreds, some very 
beautiful; also semi-precious stones, such as moonstones. 

I had a fine supper here (Mrs. Station Agent being a good 
cook,) and have a tent all to myself out in the back yard. It 
is boarded up about four feet, all round; has a small glass 
window at the back, and a boarded door. The canvass is out¬ 
side the boards and over the top. The door has two fastenings. 
I shall feel perfectly safe all by my lonesome. A nice little cot 
to sleep on. There is a dog, in a wired-in yard, at the next 
house, so he will make a racket if coyotes, mad or sane, come 
round. 

This is the first day since I crossed the line into Nevada 
that I have neither heard nor seen a coyote. Mrs. Station 
Agent says that she and the children used to go out round the 
country here picking up Indian arrows and (occasionally) semi¬ 
precious stones, till the coyotes went mad. If a coyote came 
too near, they just threw a stick or a lump of hard ground at 
him. But now she and the children stay close to the station. 
A neighbor woman was followed home by one the other day— 
something they say a coyote in his right mind never does. The 
ones with the rabies haven’t got down into the valley where Reno 
is as yet, and the State Solons at Reno do not believe the peril is 
real. They just ought to be made walk through here, each one 
alone, and meet and talk to people who have seen the beasts, 
or who have had friends bitten! 



TO SAN FRANCISCO 


311 


IRON POINT TO WINNEMUOCA, NEVADA 

Thursday , October 21. 

Left Iron Point, regretfully, at 7:15 a.m., for the 31 rail¬ 
road miles to Winnemucca. 

I don’t make as good time as I should these days, for I 
constantly watch ahead, on both sides, and back of me for coy¬ 
otes; and at each signal post I stop and view the near country 
for a racing form or a swirl of dust that may mean a racing 
coyote. 

"If they’re not running, they’re not mad, ” I say to myself 
at every stop,—and then immediately remember the railroad 
man’s story of a coyote he stood and watched that was mad, 
but not running. At least, when the head was sent to the 
State University for examination, it was pronounced rabies. 

Two sidings, Comus and Preble, between Iron Point and 
Golconda, where I stopped 25 minutes for lunch. Sulphurous 
smelling hot springs there. I smelled them, but didn’t go over to 
them; on account of my late start, was afraid of not making 
Winnemucca before dark. Days are getting short. Golconda 
has several dozen houses, some outlying little ranches, and a 
street of stores and hotels facing the S. P. Railroad. 

About four miles west of Golconda, just by the railroad 
fence, appeared a coyote. They always “appear”: I look at a 
place and there is nothing but alkali there; glance again, a 
moment after, and there stands a coyote. This one stood and 
looked at me, but didn’t slide away when I pointed my stick at 
him (expecting him to think it a gun). So I shot off my little 
.22; he ran a short distance, and stood looking at me again. I 
shot off my little gun again; he didn’t take time to slide off into 
the sagebrush, but ran for the hills and kept running. I didn’t 
even try to aim at him, my one idea being to frighten him 
away. However, what’s the use of aiming, when I know per¬ 
fectly well I couldn’t hit anything,—even if I didn’t get so shak- 
ey when I see a coyote. I think the way he lit out for the nearest 
mountain at the second shot, he was into the nearer hills before 
I had reached the nearest signal post—my haven of refuge, as 
the mountain is his. 

Before I shot at, or over, the coyote, I saw a little cloud 
of dust ahead at the side of the track, and, as always, stopped 
short to see if it was made by a coyote. Then I saw what made 
the swirls of dust. Some distance ahead, just by my next “silent 
signal of safety” (the signal post), some objects were slowly 
crossing the track. They went so slowly, I decided that if they 


312 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


were coyotes, they must be sick ones; and the color didn’t look 
just right, though too far away to see clearly. I went over to 
the fence, and slowly edged ahead, hoping they would have gone 
off into the sagebrush before I got there. Just outside the 
fence was a well-worn, narrow little trail in the alkali: if there 
were so many coyotes around as to wear that path! Opposite 
the signal post, I sidled quietly and slowly over to it, revolver 
ready, facing the side I had seen the animals disappear on. One 
foot on the lower round of the little ladder, I peered into the 
field. There, scattered through the sage-brush, were ever so 
many little reddish pigs. Oh, the relief! They were the first 
little pigs I had seen for many weeks—what wonder I couldn’t 
recognize them crossing the railroad half a mile ahead! 

Crossed the Humboldt River twice to-day. Didn’t mind the 
bridges much. I have reached the point where I feel a certain 
relief while I am on a bridge, because one thing is sure: what¬ 
ever the danger from trains when on a trestle, I am safe from 
coyotes, sane or rabid. 

A very winding railroad all day. At first, through canyons. 
On this side of Golconda (4389 feet elevation), they broadened 
out into sagebrush valleys, miles across. Near Winnemucca, 
some ranches showed up. Huge stacks indicate the yield of 
native hay. This great valley, the wise men say, is the basin 
of ancient Lake Lahontan, and for 177 miles the railroad is 
built across it, from near Golconda west to beyond Fernley, in 
the Truckee Canyon. The Humboldt River flows through it, to 
Humboldt Lake. 

At Golconda, the Hot Springs range is on the north; and 
the Sonoma Range on the south; both ranges running north and 
south, like all these Nevada mountain ranges. The railroad 
edges over close to the hills on the south, leaving Paradise 
Valley on the right, and then turns southwest. At Winnemucca, 
the Santa Rosa Range is to the right. Nearing that city, some 
ranches shewed up. 

Passed two more sidings, Tule and Eglon, and got to Win¬ 
nemucca Post Office at 4:30 p.m. I know that the city is at the 
base of Mount Winnemucca, which is credited with a height of 
6600 feet. Which mountain is Mt. Winnemucca it is hard to tell; 
it’s not very high, anyway, the town having an elevation of 
4330 feet. Winnemucca was an Indian chief, a Pah-Ute leader, 
and, like all Indians that amounted to much, caused the white 
people a great deal of trouble, away back in the fifties. 

Winnemucca is a city of parts. It has one section “south” 
of the S. P.; another built on the north side of the railroad; and 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


313 


then there is a space of Indian, Mexican, and such like little 
houses (among which I wandered accidently when I went out to 
look around); then the city proper, the business section. Across 
the river on the Western Pacific, probably a mine or more from 
the S. P., is another bunch of buildings; but I didn’t go over to 
investigate. One Winnemucca was as much as I wanted to 
wander through this evening. 

Think I’ll take a day off at Reno, to let my mail catch 
up to me. Hope to get there the 27th. Then my next address 
will be Colfax, California, and then Niles. 

I am almost directly west from where I started this morning; 
but I have wandered, north and south, as well as west, to get 
here, and I’m not at all sure I haven’t travelled east a little 
too. 

Nevada is surely a sagebrush-covered, unsettled country. 
My map gives only two cities of 2000 or over population, and 
four others of between 1000 and 2000, it must be an old one. 
But the people, both men and women, are nice to make up for 
lack of numbers. Men of course have been nice everywhere 
from the time I started; but not always the women. 

I am keeping well, and “tough as nails” now. I feel quite 
sure I am gaining weight, for my muscles are hardening up. 

Rather hot in the middle of the day. Strong breeze in my 
face for an hour or two. Got very thirsty. Had a drink out of 
the water-barrel of some section men, about SV 2 miles from 
Winnemucca. Another bunch of section men had a brown 
hound that very much resented my having passed without his 
seeing me till after I did get past. How glad I am to meet 
section men these days! I never imagined I should be glad to 
meet foreign section hands; but anything, Mexican or Greek, 
seems like a friend in this coyote-sagebrush country. Six more 
days and I will be in comparative safety, so far as coyotes with 
rabies are concerned,—if I have luck. 

The hotel at Beowawe has not forwarded my water canteen; 
nor has a letter come, with word that it wasn’t found. My 
straw bag caught up with me here, and I have sent it on to 
Reno. The post office clerk advised me to put on a new tag, 
which I did; it needed it, for the old one was much readdressed. 
The Pueblo Postmaster, in sending it, returned also my first 
letter to him; in it I had asked him to forward the bag to 
“Pueblo”!—which accounts for it not reaching me till after I 
Tiad written again. 

The earthquake of October 2 was very bad at Iron Point. 
In the station, pictures and dishes were shaken down. Near 


314 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


there, cracks came in the ground, out of which lava was forced 
up. The creeks and rivers had been dry for months,—even the 
Humboldt River near there had gone dry,—but the earthquake 
brought the water back into the streams. 

I am told that the Sierras will be twenty feet deep in snow 
by the time I get there. But what matter, so the mad coyotes 
are not there. 

WINNEMUCCA TO IMLAY, NEVADA 

Friday, October 22. 

Left Winnemucca (locally, “Winnemuck”) at 6:40 a.m. 
Got to Imlay station, over 33 miles, at 4:30 p.m. Had no lunch. 

From Rose Creek to Nenzel the S. P. is double tracked. 

At first the S. P. went along the river, which was some 
distance below it. At Rose Creek (a station and a few other 
buildings), the W. P. drifted north; for about 12 miles from 
Winnemucca it was in sight across the valley. Then the S. P. 
and I wandered southwest, along the Humboldt River, and the 
Eugene Mountains came between the two railroads. Away 
ahead somewhere the Humboldt River runs into Carson Sink. 
On both sides was sagebrush most of the way, the railroad 
running through a wide valley. Here and there the river 
banks were covered with willows and other bushes, which some¬ 
times came close up to the rails. 

Didn’t see a coyote all day. Hear that the day after I 
passed Valmy, a rabid coyote made things lively there. 

Not far from Winnemucca the section gang passed me on 
a handcar. After they stopped, I passed them again, and an old 
man, with a yellow-gray beard (an American), talked; offered 
me water, which, unluckily, I drank, and of course was dreadful¬ 
ly thirsty the rest of the day. A section gang always take a 
keg of water with them; when they reach the place they are 
to work, the wise ones dig a hole and bury the keg to within a 
few inches of its top, to keep the water cool. The old man 
cheered me by saying the coyote talk was all talk, nothing in it. 
Not that I believed him—I knew he was talking to keep my cour¬ 
age up, but it was nice of him. Had a second chat with him later,, 
after the handcar passed me again. Some miles farther on, 
passed another gang of section hands, and was so thirsty I 
asked them for water. 

Near Cosgrove (a section house) a stout red-haired man 
that had passed and met me a couple of times, going his rounds 
on his motor, again overtook me and walked the short distance 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


315 


to Cosgrove. There I got a drink of water, going into the 
kitchen of the section house for it. I had meant to try to get 
dinner here, but changed my mind. The outfit was all Mexi¬ 
cans; very pleasant to me. The foreman said their motor was 
going down to Imlay in half an hour, and I could ride. When 
I explained that I had to walk all the way, he said no one 
would know it if I rode. The motor passed me later, but went 
only to Mill City, where I again passed it. 

West (that is, on this side) of Cosgrove, the red-haired 
man again overtook me, and walked for a couple of miles, push¬ 
ing his motor—for which I was more than glad: two miles that 
I didn’t have to watch ahead, back of me, and on both sides for 
coyotes. The railroad wound round above the river valley, 
where he said there had been more rabid coyotes killed than 
in any other part; and I was wretched after he got on his 
motor, until I reached Imlay. He took my little bag, and left 
it at “the club house,”—the S. P. Railway Hotel, beside the 
Imlay depot. 

This man is the “other railroad man”, besides the watch¬ 
man, that was in the round-house at Imlay the night that two 
trampers were in there getting warm when a mad coyote rushed 
in. They killed the coyote and sent his head to the State Uni¬ 
versity —rabies! Others have been killed and sent there, and 
also pronounced to have rabies. Along the section of the river 
valley where he walked through with me, many traps have been 
placed, as well as poison,—not to trap the coyotes for their fur, 
but to get rid of them. 

After I passed Mill City (a little town), I noticed a man 
back of me; thought at first he was one the section-hands, but 
he passed where they were working. I decided to keep him back 
of me, so I wouldn’t have to watch behind me for coyotes; when¬ 
ever he seemed to be gaining, I padded along a little faster. A 
short distance before Imlay, he overtook me. Said it had taken 
him two and a half miles to catch up— some one besides me 
counts time by miles and not by hours. A man that was travel¬ 
ing with him had their burros with packs ahead on the road; and 
just before we got to Imlay we met the other man, who had 
left his burros at Imlay and turned back down the railroad. 
They soon turned off at a wagon road, connected with their out¬ 
fit, and I waved good j by to them just as I got to the Imlay 
station. 

The man who overtook me tagged my talk as “Boston”; 
said that he belonged about 70 miles from Boston, but had been 
in the West for thirty years; that he was a mining engineer. 


316 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


Told me if it so happened I was near their outfit at mealtime 
to-morrow, to stop and eat with them; they had plenty of sup¬ 
plies. It had taken them two days to go from Winnemucca to 
Imlay, and he had thought they were making good time, till 
he learned I had made the same distance in one day. Said 
that even the two of them, with firearms, didn’t feel any too 
comfortably safe from the coyotes. 

I claimed my bag at the Railway Club Hotel, got a room 
there, and later went over to the Post Office, which is in the 
town, a little way from the railroad. Postmaster signed at 
5.05 p.m. At the post office, I almost collapsed. The other 
times that queer collapsication has happened, sitting down for a 
while and a drink of water has fixed me up. This time it didn’t. 
Tried a glass of plain soda, and felt worse. Got back to the 
hotel somehow, and the maid brought up ice water. A couple 
of hours afterward, I got up. Thought I must eat, not having 
had anything since the morning, and felt hungry when I went 
into the dining room; so ordered steak, salad, and potatoes. 
Besides ordering them, I paid for them—that’s all. Got sick 
again before I tasted them, and had to come back upstairs. 
So this day’s D. B. is being written Saturday instead of Friday. 

IMLAY TO NENZEL, NEVADA 

Saturday , October 23. 

Tried to eat a steak for breakfast, and again couldn’t eat, 
only a little rice and cream. Some one had marked the price 
for my room in the register as 50 cents. The clerk got very 
excited; said the rooms were $1.00 each, except for railroad 
people; wanted to know if the secretary had “authorized” the 
other price for me. When he recovered enough to listen, I told 
him I hadn’t even asked the price, and knew nothing of what 
had been put down. So he charged me the dollar and recovered 
his equilib. I was satisfied; it was worth more. 

Left Imlay at 7:15. Before I got beyond the Imlay switches, 
there trotted a coyote up the track. I stopped, and thought he 
saw me, for he turned off to the left. I turned to the right. 
Then he really saw me, crossed back to the right, and hustled 
off. I accordingly took the left, close over to the telephone 
poles, till long after I passed the place where he was when I 
saw him. 

From Imlay, round the north end of the West Humboldt 
Range and south to Humboldt, where there is a fine grove of 
big trees enclosed, with some houses, within a wooden fence. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


317 


Humboldt is a little over 7 miles from Imlay; half a dozen 
houses and as many dogs. Here the red-haired railroad man 
is “baching”, and has a shepherd puppy—perhaps one of the 
half dozen dogs I saw. Nenzel is directly south of Humboldt. 

Passed Valery— on the map, as important as Imlay; but 
it is only a siding. Oh, these places that on the maps are re¬ 
presented by a round dot and a name, just like a town of one 
or two thousand inhabitants, and when I get there and find 
only a siding and a name stuck on a post! It is to sigh! 

Before reaching Rye Patch, thought I heard coyotes to my 
left ahead, just where the east and west tracks begin to part 
company. Now, I think it may have been the telegraph posts 
“singing.” I crossed over to the west-going track, which there 
was lower than the e^st-bound track—and farther away from 
the noise. In about five minutes, seeing a man on the east 
track, coming toward me, I crossed back to that one. He was a 
Mexican. I asked if he wasn’t afraid of coyotes. 

“No, not see any coyotes.” 

I said I was afraid of meeting them, and he comforted me 
with: 

“No coyotes; section men at work back there,” nodding 
in the direction from which he had come. That was a comfort. 

And yet, how really funny! that I should be glad to learn 
that I would soon pass a bunch of Mexican section-hands, miles 
from a house or other person! And in the Middle West I was 
warned against these same Mexicans and their treachery. But 
I sure am glad to meet them! 

At Rye Patch (over eight miles before Nenzel) are several 
little houses, besides the section house, and a big building that 
is station, store, and post office, and evidently was once a 
hotel. Asked the woman to sell me dinner or lunch. 

“No!” 

But I could “buy something in the store” (her store), she 
said. Asked for condensed milk and crackers. Then for water: 

“You can get water out back.” 

Said I supposed I could eat my crackers and milk in the 
store (where I then was standing): 

“No!” 

I suggested that I couldn’t very well sit on the railroad 
track and eat. 

“Just as you like about that, but I can’t let anyone sit in 
here.” 

I hadn’t paid for the crackers and milk, so said I wouldn’t 
take them, but would wait for eats till I got to Nenzel. 


318 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


Half a mile out of Rye Patch, met the red-haired man 
again. Seemed like an old friend, meeting so often in the 
dcssrt. 

At Nenzel, the postmaster signed at 3:21 p.m.,—the post 
office being Oreana. Then back across the railroad to this 
hotel,—a two-storey building, with board walls and partitions. 
Young man, at dinner, said he would give me a letter to the 
station-agent at Parran, because “there is nothing at Parran 
but salt beds, alkali, and such like.” 

Smelting was begun in Oreana nearly fifty years ago, 
but rather petered out. Then, a few years ago, a man named 
Nenzel re-discovered valuable silver, lead, and other ores here. 
Hence the name of the station. 

From Imlay to Nenzel, 26^4 railroad miles. The West 
Humboldt Range has been on my left all day; the broad, cut-up 
valley and low river-bed on my right. Yesterday, the Humboldt 
River wandered far off from the railroad and me, just above 
Mill City; and to-day.it meandered back near Valery. Before 
Humboldt, the Eugene Mountains were to the north. The 
mountains are really beautiful, particularly^ the Humboldt 
Range; the Trinity Mountains, on the other side, were farther 
off. 


They tell me here that the coyotes south of Lovelock are all 
right—rabies hasn’t shown up yet south of there. 

A while ago, the wind got up, and blew, and the alkali dust 
was very much in evidence—smelled it in here. The alkali 
desert, when the wind blows, has a peculiar smell, like—well, 
like alkali. I am daily getting more and more alkali-coated, 
from my lips all down my throat. I can manage to wash it off 
the outside night and morning, but not inside: I swallow it, 
and breathe it, and eat it with my food. 


NENZEL TO LOVELOCKS, NEVADA 

Sunday, October 2U. 

This morning, went to a house near the hotel and got the 
letter the young man promised to leave there for me addressed 
to the Parran station agent. 

Left Nenzel about 7:45; got here to Lovelocks, nearly 14 
miles southwest, at 11:50 a.m. The Post Office is Lovelocks; 
S. P. R. R. calls it Lovelock. 

A mile this side of Nenzel, the near country changed. 
Through a cut, and out into a valley—“the richest in the State” 
in the way of production per acre,—through which runs the 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


319 


river, at first in the bottom of a very deep wash that it must 
have cut years ago. A wagon road, too, runs along the bottom 
of this wide wash, for several miles at least. In places there 
is considerable grayish-muddy water in the river. I’m told 
it is the thousands of fish swimming in the shallow water that 
keeps the mud stirred up. Before the earthquake, the river 
bed along her was dry, they say. (Where were the fish 
while the river bed was dry? Can the fish of the desert rivers, 
like the water, sink in the sand?) 

The valley between railroad and river is fine alfalfa land. 
One field of sixty acres, that hasn’t had any water at all this 
summer, produced about 300 tons of alfalfa hay; generally 
they get about 400 tons off the same field. Certainly the size 
of the stacks, in comparison with the size of the fields, is 
noticeable. Wonderful hay crops, too, are grown. Nevada cer¬ 
tainly raises more than the sagebrush and coyotes I’ve been 
groaning over. 

The valley is very pretty. The trees have turned a 
bright golden yellow, and every ranch has a lot of trees around 
the buildings—tall trees, poplars or cottonwood, I keep forget¬ 
ting to ask which. 

After Woolsey (siding and section house 4 Y 2 miles from 
Nenzel), the Lovelocks valley is well filled with ranches, down 
to Lovelocks. It is a lot of company to see ranches, even though 
of course I am no more safe from coyotes than if they weren’t 
there. It seems that the rabid coyotes have got into this valley 
too; some stock has been bitten and had to be killed. 

At Kodak (another siding), a man was loading on a team 
what the earthquake had left of the S. P. water tank there. It 
was completely demolished—not enough left for anyone to 
guess its ever having been a water tank. The one-storey little 
house, or shed, beside the tank wasn’t injured. The man pointed 
out a 12-inch by 12-inch post that had been broken short off. 
Says the quake opened some cracks in the earth in this valley, 
too. It is the first bad shock this district has had. 

This man told me more coyote stories. Says I won’t be 
out of it till I cross the range into California; and even in the 
Northern California counties some have run mad this year. He 
saw a pack of nine coyotes in the field by his barn the other 
morning,—the most he had ever seen together at one time. 
Also, that at one time this summer there were five or six patients 
in the Nevada University Hospital taking the Pasteur treat¬ 
ment from coyote bites. If people would only keep to them¬ 
selves what they know about such things! 


320 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

He told me of an elderly couple that arrived at one of the 
ranch houses the other evening, in an automobile, “with tears 
in their eyes,” asking where they were. Had been motoring 
all day long, and not seen a person, and had lost their way. 
They might have better been surprise if they had met anyone! 
The railroad is lonesome enough; but once in a while (supposed 
to be every ten or fifteen miles at least) section hands are at 
work. But the wagon roads! I see them meandering off through 
miles and tens of miles of sagebrush and hill, without a build¬ 
ing or ranch anywhere within sight. 

The black croaking desert bird I dislike so much is the 
raven; and the very long tail, with the black and white bird at¬ 
tached, is the magpie. 

The mountain ranges on both sides were nearer the railroad 
to-day. Quite near Lovelocks is an odd-shaped mountain, toward 
the West. Stands by itself, and closer than the range; one of its 
tops is flat. All the mountains round about have many, many 
peaks and tops, of different heights. 

This afternoon a man in the hotel here at Lovelocks pointed 
out to me—or thought he did—a cafe across the street. I 
walked over, thinking it odd the curtains were down in both 
window and door, but opened the door and walked in—to a bar¬ 
room. The men inside did not appear glad to see me. The cafe 
was next door. The street was full of Sunday loafers, who 
must have been amused to see a woman walking into the bar¬ 
room. 

This hotel has a real porter, a colored boy! It furnishes 
an individual cake of soap for each guest, as did one other in 
Nevada. Generally, there is just a community piece. The 
chore-man (or is he a chambermaid?) is a Chinaman. 

From my window I can see the top of a line of the golden- 
yellow trees. Warm, beautiful violet-blue sky, with smooches 
of white cloud along the horizon. 

Did shopping in Winnemucca, a little at Nenzel, and a little 
to-day. 

The list of hotels between Iron Point and Blue Canyon that 
the Iron Point station agent gave me is mighty useful. It saves 
me lots of worry; when I start out each morning, I don’t need to 
wonder where, if at all, I’ll find a place to sleep that night. 

Lovelock has an altitude of 3980 feet, the lowest town I’ll 
be in until I get to Towle, California, 3700 feet. 

Now that there is only one more day that I have to take a 
long walk, I dread that one long one. Odd, for I really can 
make over thirty miles a day now easier than I could make 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


321 


twenty miles three months ago. And to-morrow will be that one 
long walk. 


LOVELOCKS TO PARRAN, NEVADA 

Monday, October 25. 

Left Lovelocks at 6:30 a.m., after breakfast in a cafe run 
by Chinamen. 

The railroad runs north and south down the centre of the 
main street, with a footbridge across the tracks, just south of 
the station, the south-going trains being the west-bound. Sev¬ 
eral sidings also here. 

Another fine day, too warm in the middle of the day. Made 
about 33 miles. 

At first, I walked through sandy dunes, sprinkled with 
a great deal of greasewood. Below Granite Point, much less 
greasewood; more desert-like. At Granite Point (8 miles south¬ 
west of Lovelocks), the nearest hills on the west end in rocky 
points, but they do not look like granite—not like New Hamp¬ 
shire’s stern granite. 

At Toy (16 miles from Lovelocks), where I had been told 
I might “get to stay” over night, a smooth-haired black dog 
(big) made a lot of noise at me. By the time he tired raging, 
I saw a woman at the back door of the station, and called to her 
to know if I could buy lunch there. She asked me in. I had 
coffee and bread and butter, but she refused to take pay for it; 
said she never took pay from the men who chanced in, and cer¬ 
tainly wouldn’t from a woman. Did she think me a really 
tramp? Got to Toy at 11 and left at 11:20. 

A mile or more southwest from Toy, close by the railroad, 
a large building is being put up—looks like a mill. Quite a 
village of cabins and tents around it. Near there, on a wagon 
road parallel to and a little below the railroad, was a very large 
dead coyote,—probably thrown from the track by the train. 

At the left of the railroad, from Toulon, past Toy and 
Marian, lies Humboldt Lake; for the most part at present a dry 
alkali waste, although some distance away, close to the hills, it 
appears to be water. When the streams and Humboldt River 
are active, this Lake overflows, and Carson Sink absorbs the 
water. It is said that the telegraph poles were put through the 
valley when the Lake was low; later, when the wires were 
strung, the water was high, and, the poles then standing in the 
Lake, boats had to be used in stringing the wires. 

From a couple of miles before Toy to several miles beyond 


322 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


it, there are no fences to the railroad. Then the fences begin 
again, and continue to Huxley; no fences from Huxley to Par- 
ran. 

Here at Parran they tell me there are no more fences till 
I get to Hazen. None are needed: no stock ranges on these 
alkali and salt wastes. Nevertheless, I like the fences. 

Coming from Lovelocks, the country gets more and more 
barren. Before Humboldt Lake are tule swamps. At Huxley there 
are salt beds, and, on the right, salt works. The surface, which 
is more or less alkali dust, sprinkled with cinders from the 
trains, is taken off; the water under it (always near the sur¬ 
face in salt beds) evaporates, leaving the salt, which is then 
shoveled into immense bins, where it stays till shipped away. 

Nearing Huxley, I scanned the few buildings that wander 
across the alkali stretches, for a possible chance habitation, or 
anything that looked like a possible night’s lodging. But any¬ 
thing less hopeful, where there were any buildings at all, it 
would be hard to find. 

From Huxley to Parran is practically a salt desert, with 
a small stretch of sagebrush. At Huxley, years ago, the Rail¬ 
road Company bored over 2700 feet in an attempt to reach good 
water, but unsuccessfully. At 1700 feet, they found petrified 
clams; and at 1900 feet, well preserved redwood. 

Several hours before I got to Parran, a railroad signal man 
that I met, he on his little motor, told me that everyone at 
Parran was “baching”. Later, he passed me going toward 
Parran. These signal men ride along the railroad on little 
three-wheeled motors, inspecting the safety-signals, to make 
sure they are in good working order. 

At Parran are more salt works—a house and some other 
buildings out on the salt beds. This salt desert is part of the 
Salton Sink. I greatly prefer barren salt desert to sagebrush; 
I can see farther, rather the stretches near me are more open. 

When I got to Parran, as I passed a little mud-roofed 
hohse at the side of the track, a man came out and spoke. I 
found the station locked up; and on trying to inquire of a for¬ 
eigner I met, he directed me to go back to the little house, 
where, he said “Americans” lived. So I went to the “American” 
house, which was the pumper’s, and waited there. He said the 
station agent was “out shooting,” the night operator being in 
the station. The signal-man was at the house, but later went 
over to his own place to get his supper. 

The pumper has been “baching” there eight years. He 
cooked a dandy supper, and I ate and ate and ate. Yes; I made 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


323 


a pig of myself. He went into the kitchen while the signal-man 
talked to me, and cooked supper; said he expected “that fellow” 
would ask what he was frying potatoes for, as he, the pumper, 
didn’t like them; seemed much pleased that the signal man had 
asked no inquisitive questions and so he had been enabled to get 
my supper ready without my knowing it! 

After supper, I took the letter the young man had given me 
a day or two ago, over to the station agent, a young man per¬ 
haps 23 or 24 years. He and the night operator (still younger) 
were “baching” in the station. He took the night operator’s 
room, and let me have his—which I surmise is supposed to be 
much the better room. In the station building is also a little 
dining room, kitchen, and back porch, besides the office. The 
boys asked me to have supper; and when I refused, having had 
it, brought me a cup of good chocolate. There is a graphophone 
here, an unusually good one—has but little grate to it. 

The station agent signed and stamped my slip at 5 p.m. 
I am a little lower than last night, Parran being on a desert 
3895 feet elevation. 

They tell me the railroad is unfenced from here to Hazen, 
and—alas!—the sagebrush begins again a few miles below 
here. The S. P. railroad signal system goes through to San 
Francisco, which I am more than glad to hear. Those little 
ladders on the signal posts make me feel safer. 

Coyote tales here, too; not here at the station, but the 
signal-man was telling about having to stop his motor and 
wait for one to get off the track. Part of the outfit of the hand- 
cars the section hands take out through Nevada nowadays seems 
to be a gun. Seeing that shotgun or rifle on a hand-car of 
swarthy Mexicans or Greeks makes the coyote stories seem more 
real. The signal-men, too, have mostly been carrying guns in 
their pockets of late, they tell me. 

PARRAN TO HAZEN, NEVADA 

Tuesday, October 26. 

All night last night the telegraph instruments clacked (sev¬ 
eral open wires go through here); over the telephone the night 
operator reported the passing trains to Sparks, (the Dispatcher 
is there, and every train that passes has to be reported to him by 
telephone); the trains now and then rumbled past, or were 
switched to the siding and stopped; and the railroad men from 
trains waiting on the siding here for other trains to pass, came 
in and talked to the night operator, and occasionally went back 


324 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

into the kitchen (next to my room on one side) and rattled round 
the stove getting coffee (the, nights are cold, cold, notwith¬ 
standing the heat of the desert days); and each time I heard 
the rattling and smelt the coffee, I thought it was morning and 
almost time to get up. And there was only a thin partition be¬ 
tween my room and the office where the telegraph instruments 

and telephone were. . . . 

However, when mine hosts were solicitous in the morning 
as to whether I had slept well, what could I do but say I had! 

The pumper had told me last night to come over to break¬ 
fast, but the boys said he wasn’t up yet, and that I was to 
breakfast with them; that they “had plenty”. Before that I 
had seen one of them run over to the pumper’s and come back 
with four eggs. The night operator, whose turn it was to get 
breakfast, made potato balls, and fried their last piece of meat 

_each one left it for the others, so no one ate it and it went to 

the pumper’s dog. It was the night operator’s “turn” to do the 
housework, but he had just got a few days’ “leave”, and was 
rushing around to get away on the train; so I washed the dishes 
for him. At least, I said that was why I did it. I wonder if 
my>real motive was to help him or because it would put off 
for a short time my starting out and facing the dreary waste 
for another day. 

Just before I left the station, a signal-man from down the 
track somewhere came up on his little motor. As he and the 
station agent talked, I saw him nod down the track. A coyote i 
I felt sure of it. The station agent came in, and when I asked 
him if that man said there was a coyote down the track, he made 
some other excuse; but I knew he didn’t want to frighten me, as 
I was starting out. As, going out, I passed the signal-man, I 
asked him; and he, not so thoughtful, said a coyote had been 
standing down by the switch. 

Left Parran at 8 a.m. The salt beds did end soon, and an 
alkali desert began, with little and big humps on it; looked as 
if sometime the alkali had boiled up in big bubbles, from perhaps 
a foot to five feet high, and then each bubble hardened instead 
of bursting. Every bubble had a little clump of greasewood or 
some other desert weed on it. After a few miles of this, a 
sandy desert began, sprinkled with small bunches of sagebrush, 
greasewood, and such like, with here and there bare alkali or salt 
patches. Desolation! 

I traveled directly south, along the west edge of the Carson 
Sink; and to my left, between Parran and Desert, was a gleam 
that looked like water,—Lower Carson Lake. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


325 


At Desert were ridges of corrugated sand. And there is a 
long curve in the track at Desert, where a construction gang 
was laying new right-hand rails, having taken up the old ones 
on that side. After the curve, the railroad starts southwest 
for Hazen: through sandy ridges (partly light sand, partly 
brown sand) and hollows, the roadbed cut through the ridges 
and filled up from the hollows. Some of the hills on my 
right were whitish sand even to the tops. 

Thought I might get lunch at Upsal; but no one was in 
sight; a fiercely-barkative dog inside a high fence. I didn’t 
tarry. Farther on, met two foreign young men, one of them 
very anxious to talk—had they, too, been walking the lonesome 
deserts, and were glad to meet a stranger? He told me there 
was a pumper’s house at the next station, but that Hazen was 
only four miles beyond that. 

“Things dear at Hazen,” with a shake of his head; “thirty- 
five cents for a meal.” 

In regard to prices, like everything else, it’s all in one’s 
point of view. I almost said I thought 35 cents cheap, but 
didn’t, for fear he might be sounding to see if i had money with 
me. 

However, there was nothing but a siding at the next station 
which is Falais; the pumper’s house was at Massie, the station 
beyond that. 

The sun was very hot, and I got to Massie unusually tired. 
Asked a man where I could get a cup of coffee,—a very foreign 
foreigner, though I didn’t realize it till he spoke. 

“Yes, get coffee at Hazen, three miles down the road.” It 
happens that Hazen is nearer five miles down the road, but even 
three miles sounded very far to me just then. A little farther 
on, I met a gray-haired, gray-mustached man, who was “bach¬ 
ing” in the pumper’s house. He took me in and I made coffee 
(he had a percolator), and I ate bread and butter and drank 
coffee. And his coffee was good coffee. 

He told me stories of other people who had walked past 
there. Of two boys the trainmen had put off a train at that 
siding, who came to him for supper and to stay over night. He 
accused them of being girls, after a time, and they owned up, 
they had run away from home. He heard from them later; one 
had married a train man and the other one was living with 
them. 

This man told me that one man at Fallon (16 miles south¬ 
east of Hazen—I don’t have to go through it) had been attacked 


3(26 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

and bitten by a coyote—only case he had heard of south of Love¬ 
locks. 

Left Massie at 3:40 and rather hurried the four miles to 
Hazen; got here at 4:45. Am again traveling upward, Hazen 
being 4070 feet high. The Postmaster signed at 4:50 p.m. To¬ 
day, 23^ railroad miles. The soles of my shoes are worn 
through, and I find there is no shoemaker here at Hazen. 

The boys at Parr an were right—there are no fences on the 
railroad between that place and Hazen. But, even so, I greatly 
prefer the unfenced desert sand thinly sprinkled with sage¬ 
brush and greasewood, to the thickly-sagebrushed country far¬ 
ther north. 

The Hot Springs Mountains are on the north, from Desert 
to Fernley (12 miles west of here). The Hot Springs Range 
was on the north between Iron Point and Winnemucca. There 
are several duplications, or near-duplications, of mountain and 
valley names in Nevada. 

Among the people I chatted with the past week was one 
old bachelor, who told me his life-story,—except why he is a 
bachelor. Was a practicing surgeon for years; studied in Paris 
as well as in this country. Has a ranch up in the mountains, 
where he has his library, and goes up there and lives at times. 
He had an adopted son, now dead, who wouldn’t take 
to study; and I learned more or less of the son’s story: his 
getting acquainted with a society girl and wanting to get mar¬ 
ried—and have his adopted father pay the bills,—but agreed to 
take a trip abroad instead. The old man’s story somehow was 
a pitiful tale, even though there was nothing tragic—unless 
the omitted part held the tragedy. 

To-morrow can get only to Derby,—19 miles,—because there 
is no hotel between Derby and Sparks, and it is 42 miles from 
here to Sparks. 

HAZEN TO DERBY, NEVADA 

Wednesday, October 27. 

Left Hazen at 7:30 a.m. Just out of Hazen I met half 
a dozen hand-car loads of Chinamen section-hands,—evidently 
I’m getting near California. Some of the gangs are all Chinese. 
After the handcars an old Chinaman walking by the side of the 
track, who blearingly blinked as I went by, and grunted “How!” 
in response to my brisk “Good-morning.” For I have kept to 
my resolve to speak to tramps, section-hands, and so on, as I 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


327 


meet them, so that they may not think I am afraid of them. 
I am not,—now. 

After about six miles, where a shallow wash went under 
the track, there was a coyote. In a moment, he saw me and 
stood looking at me. I stood still, looking at him; then banged 
off my little gun. He trotted a few steps, and stood again. I 
banged little gun off again, and he trotted off a few steps 
farther. The railroad was raised half a dozen feet there; and, 
as he didn’t seem inclined to go away, I got down on the side 
of the track farthest from him, and hustled along. Some dis¬ 
tance farther, by the next signal post, I got back on the rail¬ 
road again, and took observations. No coyote. 

As I write,—it is dark now,—the things are yelping not far 
off. There is a saying, amounting almost if not quite to a be¬ 
lief among the men most familiar with coyotes, that they dodge 
bullets; I have heard it again and again, said apparently in 
good faith. Also, that coyotes have remarkably keen sight: 
as far off as they can see a man, can tell if he is carrying a 
gun. A man with a gun can hardly ever glimpse one near 
enough to shoot; while the same man, another day, without a 
gun, will walk past them as they stand looking at him. 

I asked a man at Fernley why people didn’t shoot coyotes 
whenever they saw one—or at least try to. The answer was: 

“Why, there’s no bounty on them.” 

That I have heard time and again. People won’t take the 
trouble to kill coyotes while there is no profit in it; excepting, 
of course, the men, like railroad men, who are exposed to the 
danger of the rabid ones. 

Heard one story of an operator at one of the stations who, 
after handing up the telegraphic orders to a passing train, 
was chased into the station by coyotes, that jumped at the glass 
window after he got inside. Another—this one a good climber 
evidently—couldn’t get to the station, and climbed a telegraph 
pole out of their way, where he had to stay till the next train 
came along, when the coyotes fled. 

At Gilpin, a few miles east of Derby, is a pumping station. 
The Truckee Canal runs above and south of the railroad. The 
Truckee River has considerable water in it, and runs quite fast. 
The map I’m using omits the river. 

About a mile past Fernley the railroad runs through a long, 
not very deep, cut, beginning its winding around part way up 
r.be *>ides of so:^e hills. On coming out of the cut (on the west 
side) there is a beautiful view. To the right, below in the 
valley surrounded by hills, is Wadsworth, just the tops of 


328 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

houses showing 1 through the yellow and green cottonwood trees. 
Ahead are hills and mountains, brown and reddish and greenish 
gray. Another curve, and the Truckee River valley extends 
several miles ahead (almost to Derby), narrowing toward that 
place. Across on the opposite hills in one place was apparently 
a mine, with a big wheel standing out prominently. 

Near Derby the railroad crosses the river on an iron bridge, 
quite high. Providentially, a man came along and I hung on to 
his arm crossing it. It is No. 13; that means twelve more 
bridges over the Truckee River between here and Truckee. 

Got to Derby, (elevation 4165 feet) about 19 miles from 
Hazen, at 1:10. After a few miles northwest at first, and a 
little southwest at last, and not counting the windings of the 
railroad between, I have been coming mostly west all day. I 
had to stop here, because the next place where I could stay 
over night is Sparks, and that is 23 miles farther on. 

The valley is very narrow here at Derby. The only build¬ 
ings in sight are the store and saloon and this hotel and post 
office (all four run by one man), a two-stamp mill a-building 
just back of them, and across the railroad track in a hollow a 
wee school-house, which “has usually eight or ten pupils.” 

From the front of this house, the cottonwoods in the valley 
look beautiful with their brilliant yellow leaves. A lady one 
day told me how she hates them; sees no beauty in them. I 
imagine she has been marooned for so long in one place that she 
just hates everything. Even beauty in trees depends on one’s 
viewpoint. 

This afternoon, I went up and looked at the mill in process. 
The fat old man that owns the mine site sits round watching it 
grow,—downward. Down at the bottom of a very, very deep 
hole is a man drilling out the stone; goes up and down in a tin 
bucket hardly three feet deep. As I peered down the hole, 
the noise of his drilling came up distinctly, but sounded very far 
off; the apparent depth is increased by the little spark of light 
at the bottom of the hole. 

I am using the last map that I will need on this trip. 
Mailed my Nevada map back with my Daily Bulletins this 
morning. My Nevada and California maps are ones that were 
gotten out for the benefit of the Exposition visitors. On this 
California map there is a railroad from Wadsworth to Derby; 
but it was abandoned some time ago, the track taken up, and the 
land turned back to the State. Otherwise, the mine owner 
says, he couldn’t build his mill—it would have been on railroad 
land. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


329 


On the Nevada map, as well as the California one, there 
are lots of “stage roads” marked that do not exist at all; per¬ 
haps they were laid out (on paper, like many of the roads in the 
Middle West) years ago, but the “oldest inhabitants” of the 
places where they apparently run up to the stations, never 
tieard of roads ever having been there. 

A mile or two before I got here .to Derby, something sang 
sharply through the air a little above and perhaps a 
foot ahead of me. It snipped off a bit of weed growing on the 
bank at my left, which fell at my feet, and pinged into the sand 
of the railroad bank (there was quite a high banking on that 
side), spurting out a little cloud of dust. I immediately got up 
on the railroad track itself, so that anyone down in the valley 
could see I was a person. I had been walking down at the side 
of the track, next the up-hill part of the hill. The railroad was 
built on the side of the canyon, and the man who shot might 
have seen only my gray hat against the bank, and taken it for 
a coyote. His shooting a little ahead seemed like that—as if 
he had counted on the gray object going faster than I walk. 
They say government sharp-shooters are out watching for 
coyotes, to see if the reports of rabid coyotes are true. The 
people through this part of the country, however, say the gov¬ 
ernment men know nothing of the habits of coyotes, and don’t 
go to the right places to see them, and so report that there are 
very few round about. It would be bad to be shot accidentally 
—or any other way—but infinitely preferable to being attacked 
by a coyote with rabies. Perhaps that’s why it didn’t even 
really frighten me—I’ve walked with the much wonse fear 
every day. 


DERBY TO RENO, NEVADA 

Thursday , October 28. 

Last night, I asked what time breakfast would be this 
morning, and was told, 

“Seven o’clock —not before /” 

I felt quite annihilated. At 7 this morning I went out the 
door of my part of the hotel, and into the postoffice part, and 
asked to warm my fingers. The hotel lady let me go into the 
kitchen (only place where there was a fire), and we got quite 
well acquainted, and she proved very pleasant and talkative. 

Got away at 8:30 a.m. Made 2 6% miles to-day. Kept 
telling myself, “Only 23 miles to Sparks—only 23 miles to 


330 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

Sparks,” intending, if I got there after 4 o’clock, to stay all 
night (was told of a “Railway Club” hotel there). 

Just after leaving Derby, I walked across Truckee River 
Bridge 12. It upset me, so when I came to No. 11, I balked. 
A little girl of perhaps 12 or 14 offered to walk over with me. 

I told her it was too silly for a grown-up woman like me 
to have to have a little girl walk over with me. But she said, 

“Lots of women can’t go over it, while I go back and forth 
all the time.” 

So she came over with me. 

Later, by myself, I crossed Nos. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, and 5, and I 
think also No. 4. Some of them were long. Now, why couldn’t 
I cross No. 11 by myself! 

Got to Clark, at 10:45, after seven miles of narrow and 
rather high-walled canyons from Derby. Post Office in station, 
so had postmaster sign, and got water. Was told there was one 
“vicious dog” at a house close to the railroad, but to keep to 
the right-hand track and I probably could get past. At Ditho, 
five miles farther, there was a ranch house near the railroad, 
and I kept as far to the right as the railroad would allow. No 
dog appeared. As soon as I passed that house, another little 
ranch house showed up very close to the track; again I kept 
as far to the right as I could. No dog. 

Passed two section gangs at work to-day, foreigners. One 
gang had three dogs, but quiet ones. 

The railroad followed the Truckee River through narrow 
canyons, with ranches along the river, and the beautiful golden- 
yellow trees outlining the river’s course. They look the more 
beautiful to me after the alkali and salt stretches and the 
sagebrush hills and valleys of-the past couple weeks. The im¬ 
mense size of the alfalfa stacks and the smallness of the fields 
are out of all proportion. It seemed strange, but very nice and 
comforting, to be near enough the ranches to be able to see the 
men at work in the fields. 

The railroad wound round the hillsides, with the river and 
ranches below, in most places. There was one stretch where the 
sagebrush and weeds came up to the track on both sides; then 
I found myself in just as much of a panic as ever about coyotes. 

In places, the hillsides of cocoa-colored rocks sloped dir- 
etly up from the tracks. There were cuts where the railroad ran 
through light grayish rocks that looked white twenty feet off; 
and reddish and sulphur-yellowish rocky places. 

Constantly mountain ranges back of mountain ranges, 
besides the near hills through which the narrow valley twists 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


331 


in and out. With the exception of a few places, such as the 
sagebrush stretch, the walk to-day was beautiful. Sometimes 
I would be walking along facing the sun directly, and an hour 
later would be walking with my back to it,—the canyons wound 
in and out so much between the hills. Ever since Fernley, I 
have been coming through the Virginia Range. 

About four miles east of Sparks, instead of a hill close in 
front seeming to shut off the valley (as had been most of the 
day), the mountain ahead seemed some distance off; and at 
Vista (three miles east of Sparks, and at the western side of 
the Range,) the wide, flat valley—the “Truckee Meadows”—in 
which Sparks and Reno rest, came into view. 

I was past the rabid coyote country! 

The most characteristic feature of the valley is its level¬ 
ness. Cattle and horses in the fields, and teams, with people , 
going along the road near the railroad! It was like coming 
into another world from that in which I had been for days: 
there was a strangeness about seeing teams and people, outside 
of a town,—instead of miles and miles of apparently unin¬ 
habited country and the consciousness that there was no human 
being within a dozen miles of me. 

The wide ditch on each side of the raidroad was full of 
water and “mud hens”—a dark bird that looks somewhat like a 
wild duck. Here came my first close-hand intimation that I was 
again in so-called “civilization,” when two Mexicans that were 
shooting mud-hens neither spoke to me nor stopped what they 
were doing to stand and wait for me to speak. It may be a 
“country” habit, that of passers-by greeting each other on the 
roads, but it is one that has grown very dear to me on this 
trip. The half-wondering, half-goodnatured “How-do” of the 
Mexican or Greek section-hand has helped to lighten many a long 
day’s tramp. 

An American, sitting by the track with a gun, when I asked 
what the birds were that the Mexicans were shooting at, told 
me that though “they” (nodding toward the Mexicans) ate them, 
“other people” shot the birds merely for sport. 

Got to the Sparks railroad yards at 3:30. There I talked 
to an old man who, some years ago, was “baching” in a section- 
house, and took in a young couple who were on a walk around 
the world. 

At Sparks I asked for a drink of water: was so near the 
end of my day’s trip I could afford to take a drink. Man first 
said he had no water there, then that he had no cup and I had 
better wait till I got to town, that the water there wasn’t very 


332 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

good. Told him I was not going up to the town, but to Reno, 
and asked how far it was. 

“Two miles.” 

I asked, in surprise, if it wasn't three. 

“No; two.” 

It was nearly three, but I suppose he wanted to be rid of the 
red-nosed woman who was walking. (My nose is peeling). I 
wanted to get lunch at Sparks, but the railroad lunch room was 
locked, and I didn't go over to the tow» of Sparks to get any, 
but came on here to Reno. 

The railroad was fenced from Hazen to Derby. Not fenced 
from Derby to Vista, though some of the ranches had fenced 
themselves off from it. 

After dinner to-night, did some shopping. Bought a pair 
of very soft shoes in a real shoe store and left them to have 
heels put on. They are “boxing shoes”—the only kind I could 
find that had no inner toe-boxes. Reno used to be a great box¬ 
ing centre, and the stores carried boxing shoes. The hotel I’m 
in is supposed to have hot and cold water, but they seem to have 
compromised; it is luke warm from both faucets. My suit case 
is here at the express office; but the office closed at 6 o’clock, 
before I went after it. 

It was a blessed relief, between Sparks and Reno, not to 
have the dread of rabid coyotes. I think I had nearly reached 
the end of my courage. Every day it has been harder to start 
out; and at Parran it just seemed all night as if I couldn’t start 
down the stretch of railroad the next morning when morning 
should come. The laying awake nights hearing the coyotes 
yelping and feeling that I couldn’t go on the next day—as I did 
so many nights through this State—was awful. It got my 
nerves as limp as the poor food through the Middle West got my 
muscles. (My muscles, by the way, are hardening—think I 
must be gaining weight. Only hope my nerves will harden up, 
too.) 

And now I am at Reno! How I have looked ahead to get¬ 
ting here, and out of the rabies-coyote country. Only for that 
fear, I wouldn’t have hated Nevada so. What agonies I have 
suffered, day and night across this State! I ought to have 
thrown up the trip, and not tried to walk across it, when I 
learned about the coyotes. But here I am: and this part of 
the State is so shut off by mountains from the rest of it, that 
here they don’t believe, or don’t want to believe, how bad the 
coyotes are. 

Many people have been anxious to come to Reno, and many 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


333 


have come; but I doubt if anyone before was so anxious to get 
here that they walked. 

The Nevada Desert is by far the worst of the three I have 
crossed. It really ends just east of Fernley, where the valley 
of the Truckee River begins. 

Into California to-morrow—probably Boca to-morrow night, 
and Summit (the top of the Sierras) the next night,—Saturday. 
No snow on any part of the Sierras in sight from here. The 
ascent of the Sierras is supposed to begin at Derby. Reno it¬ 
self has an elevation of 4497 feet, and a population of about 
11,000. It’s a long time since I have been in as large a city. 
Sparks comes next in size in Nevada with about 2500. Half a 
century ago and over there was a roadhouse built at Reno, on the 
overland route to California, and ever since it has been growing 
gradually. 

I expect to be in San Francisco by November 12. Shall go 
down around the southern end of the Bay,—instead of using the 
Oakland ferry,—and so really walk into San Francisco. 

Thinking back over Nevada, it seems, until the last two 
days, to have been, each day, a stretch of sagebrush desert,— 
with a possible mad coyote behind every clump of sagebrush,— 
and a low mountain range to cross into the next sagebrush 
stretch. But the people in Nevada, women as well as men, have 
been most kindly and friendly. 

RENO, NEVADA, TO FLORISTON, CALIFORNIA 

Friday, October 29. 

A late start, 9 a.m., on account of going for shoes that I 
had left to have heels put on, to the Post Office at Reno, and to 
the express office to forward my grip to San Francisco,—the 
last lap. Took my gray sweater out of it on the chance that 
crossing the Sierras might be colder than heretofore, and that I 
might need it as well as the one I have been carrying. Waited 
for a man to come in—one that was said to know “all about the 
roads over the Summit.” He did not. 

Left the Reno Valley after a few miles, and began to ascend 
the canyons. Ranches all along the river. The mountain sides 
get steeper and wilder all the way up to Floriston. Weathered 
rocks and rocky peaks stand out here and there. The railroad 
and I followed round on mountains, it being built part way up 
the sides. Mysterious little deep ravines cut into the moun¬ 
tains, with fir and pine trees in them. It probably seemed wild¬ 
er on account of the many days of flat valleys and sagebrush- 


334 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


covered mountains without trees. On the lower mountains here, 
there are trees growing all the way to the tops. 

One turn in the tracks brought into sight a long, high 
trestle on the right-hand (which there is the east-going) track, 
and a much higher bridge on the left-hand (west-going) track. 
A curve just ahead made the lower bridge the worse. A house 
and pumping station was a short distance to the left: I went 
over and asked a man if there was any bridge across the river 
above. No, only the railroad bridge. He offered to walk over 
the bridge with me—and I didn’t refuse. So we walked across 
the higher one. He said that a man was knocked off the lower 
bridge and killed this summer,—a train came around the curve. 
Before this, I had walked one bridge, not high, to-day. 

Verdi has a wee little valley of its own. After passing 
Verdi, I came to the Nevada-California State line (about 5000 
feet altitude), and, a little farther on, Calvada,—a sign-board, 
and an oil tank a little way from the track. A man was sitting 
there, smoking; the smoke looked comfy, so few tramps smoke. 
He said he was waiting for a freight; had come from New 
York; rather likable sort of chap. He wanted a freight to go 
through the snowsheds on, because one “gets so dirty on a pas¬ 
senger train going through.” I agreed. He couldn’t see why 
I didn’t wait for a freight, too; was sure the railroad men 
wouldn’t put a woman off even if they knew she was in an 
empty box car. 

According to the map, Calvada is almost directly south of 
Verdi, and Floriston is south of Calvada and almost as near 
the Nevada line as Verdi. 

I was walking in the shadow of the mountains long before 
the sun set on their tops. By and by the white houses and 
brownish-red roofs of Floriston appeared ahead—like a tiny 
village of doll-houses some one had set down there in the canyon 
on the steep side of the mountain. The sun had set for Floris¬ 
ton, though shining on a mountain beyond. 

The Floriston Postmaster signed for me at 5 p.m. Twenty 
railroad miles to-day. 

This afternoon is the first day since October 12th—the 
Shatter Valley—that I haven’t carried my little gun in my right 
hand all day long, every minute from I started out in the morn¬ 
ing till I stopped for the night, except while stopped for lunch. 
When I got out of the Reno Valley and coming up the mountain, 
I stuck it in my belt. The first part of the walk my right 
hand worked overtime, carrying my bag, my left hand being 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


335 


free; but crossing Nevada, the right one certainly had a rest 
from the bag, and my left had to take its turn at hard labor. 

I am in my eleventh and last State,—an even dozen if I 
count the District of Columbia. 

FLO RISTON TO SUMMIT (DONNER P. 0.), CALIFORNIA 

Saturday, October 30. 

Left Floriston at 7:08 a.m. At Floriston and for several 
miles, a cold, icy wind blew, almost, but not quite, directly in my 
face,—my poor, sunburned face! How it did ache! It surely 
was luck that I had my woolen sweater as well as the lighter one, 
on this, the first morning that I have needed it during the whole 
trip. I was some glad to have it! And how my hands ached, 
too! Wore both sweaters till I got to Truckee. The section 
men near Floriston were working in overcoats and gloves, with 
cap bands turned down round their ears. I passed a man 
carrying a piece of iron pipe across his back. 

Me: “Goo’morning.” 

He: “‘Mornin’.” 

Me: “Some cold!” 

He: “You bet!” 

It was the most heart-felt conversation of the whole trip 
so far. 

After a few miles, the turns in the canyon got me away 
from the wind; maybe it was a special wind that Floriston had 
all to itself. Later had a chat with one of two telegraph linemen 
that were drilling a hole in a rock, and he told me to take the 
wagon-road from Truckee to Summit, which cuts off some dis¬ 
tance; others have told me the same. There is an ice-plant 
above Floriston; but the town is a good imitation of one. 

Came to one high iron bridge on the left-hand track. The 
bridge on the right-hand track was longer and higher, but it 
had a hand-rail along the side. I crossed over to that track, 
and, on getting to the bridge, found lengthwise boards on the 
side by the hand-rail. To my great relief it was marked: 

TRUCKEE 

1 

RIVER 

BRIDGE 

The “1” was faint, but there. No more trestles over that river 
to cross. It was my one and only trestle to-day. The telegraph 


336 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

lineman had told me, when we discussed bridges, that I “Wasn't 
much of an aeronaut” as I was afraid to cross bridges. I ad¬ 
mitted it. 

From Floriston to Truckee I climbed higher and the tops of 
the mountain got lower. Boca seemed like a pass in the moun¬ 
tains. 

Away ahead, at one lonesome place, where the railroad 
made a long point in curving round a hill, something knocked' 
a cloud of dirt down the bank on to the track. I could see 
nothing, but felt quite relieved when I got round the curve and 
had put a good distance between me and that place. 

Got to Truckee Post Office (15 railroad miles from Floris¬ 
ton) at 11:55. Had lunch at S. P. Railway Hotel there, and* 
left at 1.05. Truckee was named from the River; and the 
River from an Indian guide that Fremont had. 

From Truckee I took the wagon road, which turns to the 
right, and after a few miles passes one end of Donner Lake. 
It follows the ins and outs of the shore the whole length of the 
lake, passing the west end before beginning to climb up hill 
to Summit. The Lake at some time has been quite a summer- 
resort, but seems to have gone out of favor. It is one of the 
prettiest small lakes I have seen anywhere. Delightful groves 
extend along the shores. A number of times I thought I was, 
coming to the west end of the lake, only to find another turn 
in the shore line and the pretty little lake still ahead of me. 

Before Donner Lake, the road passes the site of Graves'" 
cabin, marked by a sign. Graves was one of the Donner Ex¬ 
pedition, which came to grief in 1846-47 on its way to Califor¬ 
nia. Breen’s cabin is marked by a sign and also stone memo¬ 
rial. 

At a small house on the lakeside, plastered with signs, a 
man was carpentering. Said he lived there winter and sum¬ 
mer; that the snow gets seven feet deep in winter. Opposite 
this house was an enclosure, with a wooden slab, inscribed in 
memory of Albert Johnson, who came to the Lake in 1872 and 
died there in 1911, at 97 years of age. Johnson was a colored 
man who ran the camp there at first, and then “the big house* 
at the end of the lake.” 

Farther on, I passed several cabins and small houses. A 
much-bewhiskered man, with a friendly big dog, lives in one, 
just where there are a lot of poplar trees, now turned yellow. 
At the end of the lake is “the big house,”—not so big, but with 
a veranda around it,—now boarded up. 

After passing Donner Lake, the road begins its uphillf 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


337 


climb, and is deep with sand and very winding. I took one 
cut-off, and had just decided that it would be my last, it was 
such a scramble, when I saw an old road leading steeply up 
to the right. It was evidently still used as a path, and I couldn’t 
resist the chance of shortening my way: turned up it, and after 
a steep, hot climb, came out again on the regular wagon road. 

Not far from the top of the range, the road leads into a 
little hollow in the mountains; after circling round in this big 
saucer, it crosses under the snowsheds. Various parts of the 
snowsheds had been in sight from the wagon road most of the 
day. I left the road, and climbed some rocks that were piled at 
one side of the saucer, to try to get my bearings. 

“When the wagon road crosses under the snowsheds,”1 had 
been told “the hotel is on the left and the station on the right of 
the tracks.” I crossed under the snowsheds, and began to look for 
the hotel and the station: no sign of either. Some distance to 
the right, high up on a ledge, was what appeared like a small 
wooden box with a door,—the mountain fire-warden’s station, 
probably, or perhaps the fire lookout station for the railroad. I 
went on, and on: no railroad station, no hotel. Half a dozen 
times I almost turned back, feeling sure I must have overlooked 
them; that they were probably on the railroad and not on the 
wagon road. Across the summit, I began to descend! My 
only comfort was that little fire station: I could turn back and 
beg a space to stay in it all night, if the fire warden were there; 
if not—I wondered if I could climb on the roof, and shiver the 
night through, safe from mountain lions. 

At last, the hotel appeared, well on the west side of the 
summit. I meant to ask for an east room, but forgot to do so; 
no use, anyway, the snowsheds and cliffs would keep the sun¬ 
rise hidden. A gang of men are at work on the burned snow¬ 
sheds. 

The Post Office, which is called “Donner,” though the sta¬ 
tion on the railroad is Summit, is in the hotel. A pleasant 
young man signed my slip at 4:30 p.m.; but another man there 
seemed to have a grouch on: perhaps he disapproves of lone 
women crossing the summit, unless in trains or automobiles. 
A tiny cast iron stove in my room; doesn’t look as if it would 
heat a packing-box, but it has kept the room toasty all the 
evening with very little wood. 

About 28 miles to-day. It is 15 railroad miles from Truckee 
to Summit: cut off some by taking the wagon road, and added 
some by curves and hills. The railroad tunnel is at an eleva¬ 
tion of 7012 feet; the wagon road pass somewhat higher. 


338 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


This surely has been an afternoon of comfort—no dread 
of coyotes at every step. 

SUMMIT TO EMIGRANT GAP, CALIFORNIA 

Sunday y October 31. 

Wanted) an early start, and came down to breakfast 
early, but had to wait till 7 o'clock for it. Perhaps the regular 
cook is taking a vacation during the dull season. While waiting 
walked round outside, and got more or less information about 
the place, from a man on the platform. 

The railroad station is some distance from the hotel; and 
the hotel is considerably over the summit from where the wagon 
road crosses under the snowsheds. On a mountain top, there 
is considerable difference late in the afternoon—and serious 
to me—(between these facts and the statement of the man who 
told me that when I crossed under the snowsheds I’d find the 
hotel on my left and the station on the right. 

The snowsheds, contrary to my expectation, are light and 
cool. Every little way, there is a space that is not snow-shed- 
ded; these open spaces keep the sheds clear of gas and smoke 
from the trains. Along the sides, at the bottom, for a couple 
of feet from the ground, is open; and there are narrow spaces 
of an inch or more between the boards,—all giving light and 
air to the interior of the snowsheds. Then, too, there are 
spaces, “doors,” they are called, part way up the sides, and 
these are open, though they can be closed. 

At the Summit, I was told that there were no bridges and 
only one tunnel between Summit and Blue Canyon (where I 
hoped to be to-night, instead of here at Emigrant Gap). So I 
went happily on my way through the snowsheds, enjoying the 
rocky views at the open places, until, a few miles from Summit, 
I came out of the snowsheds right on to a trestle,—long, and 
very high in the middle. Perhaps I should say that the gulch 
over which it was built was very deep under the centre of the 
trestle. (Once more, they are locally known as “trestles” and 
not “bridges”; a person must have open ears to keep up with 
the English language passing from one section of the country 
to another. I had asked about “bridges”, not “trestles”. There 
were no “bridges” on to-day’s walk). 

A glance at the sides of the gulch showed there was no way 
to cross it except on the trestle, and it went too far back into 
the mountain to make it feasible to walk round the end of it. 
When I hesitate at a trestle, I’m lost; so I shut off my thinker 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


339 


as much as possible, and stepped out on the trestle, which was 
divided into thirds by two safety platforms. I slowly walked 
it, one tie at a time, one foot on each side of one of the rails. 
I tried my “safety” device of counting the ties, or trying to, but 
I couldn’t; every bit of energy and nerve was required to force 
my feet from tie to tie. One safety platform reached. I dared 
not look at it, or I should have shut my eyes and dropped on to 
it in a heap. Every step I took I promised myself that after one 
more step I would go down on all fours and crawl the rest of the 
way. The second safety platform passed: now I had to cross the 
rest of the trestle, for I simply cannot turn round when on a 
trestle. I got across, and into the next snowshed, where I sat 
awhile to mop my brow and get the wobbles out of my knees. 
Thank heaven, I don’t get dizzy, only wobbly in the knees. 

A few miles farther: another trestle, longer and higher 
(or so it seemed), appeared as I came from the snowsheds into 
the open space. The ravine in the centre looked dreadfully 
deep. I was still all shaky, after the other trestle, and just 
couldn’t cross this one—probably because I stood looking at it; 
the longer I looked, the deeper the ravine it crossed seemed to 
sink. I investigated for a way to get around; no possibility of 
climbing down into the ravine and up the other side. Up the 
side of the ravine into the mountain (on my left), at the edge 
of the gulch, was a well-beaten path. One man, at least, had 
taken that way around, for there were a few shoe tracks— and 
many, many other tracks. 

I told myself these other tracks were not bears and moun¬ 
tain lions, but the footprints of dogs that had accompanied the 
shoeprints,—not that I thought so, but it is sometimes a comfort 
to make believe to myself that I believe what I want to believe— 
especially in wild mountains. The path led around the head of 
the little ravine, then along the other edge of it back to the rail¬ 
road. At the head of the ravine, there had once been some sort 
of water works; pieces of old pipe and such like were there. 
That was probably when the path got worn. The shoeprints 
were undoubtedly those of some luckless tramp that had been 
put off a train in the snowsheds, and, coming to the trestle, like 
me couldn’t get across, and so went around. As for the other, 
many, footprints—well, the four-footed natives of the moun¬ 
tain evidently appreciated the trail. 

At Cisco, I got lunch. From there, straight down hill one- 
half mile on the wagon road, and then along the bottom of the 
ravine. I had been glad to learn, at lunch, that the wagon road 
was there—I wanted to chance no more trestles. Naturally, 


340 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

there were none of the extensive views I had been getting from 
the open gaps in the snowsheds, for the railroad runs along part 
way up the sides of the mountains. 

The tall forest trees on both sides of the wagon road were 
impressive, and at times extremely lonesome. Odd: I have 
crossed the other mountain ranges and prairies and deserts a- 
lone, and here, almost at the end of my walk, I feel lonesome 
in the mountain forests. 

Where the wagon road crosses the railroad, I asked at the 
station about trestles ahead: none between there and Emigrant 
Gap; so I again took the railroad. 

Just before I got here to Emigrant Gap, a big hook was 
hooked over the top of one rail, where the wagon road crosses 
the railroad. A switch was near, and for a moment I thought 
the hook was some railroad “derailing” arrangement. Then I 
saw it was on the main track. It had a short chain attached, 
but was so firmly hooked over the rail I had difficulty in getting 
it off. I carried it a little way, and then tossed it to one side. 
There is a steep downhill on the wagon road there, and it had 
probably been dragging from some team and caught in the rail 
as the team crossed the track. Was going to tell the station 
agent about it, but, reflecting that he might think I was trying 
to create excitement, did not. 

From Summit to Emigrant Gap is 21 railroad miles, and a 
drop of from over 7000 to 5225 feet. Postmaster here signed 
at 5:20 p.m. It gets dusky very early these days, and then 
dark comes quickly. 

I am on the west side of the Sierra Nevadas (the “Snowy 
Range”), ahead of the snow. I didn’t find snow “twenty feet 
deep”; nor did a train catch me in the snowsheds,—two of the 
many ill-luck prophecies I’ve heard on my way. Nevertheless, 
some years snow does come much earlier than this on the range. 

EMIGRANT GAP TO COLFAX, CALIFORNIA 

Monday, November 1. 

Emigrant Gap is practically at the end of the snowsheds. 
There were a few short places today where the railroad is cov¬ 
ered through cuts, but not many. The railroad runs high up on 
the sides of the mountains, and far, very far, below, are deep 
canyons and gorges, their sides covered with spruce and fir 
and pme. And always mountains back of mountains, with 
evergreen trees to their tops. 

Blue Canyon,—a few houses, hotel, station, etc.,—five 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


341 


miles from Emigrant Gap, is at the upper end of a deep canyon 
filled with evergreen trees. The railroad comes along one side 
of this narrow canyon, rounds the end of it (at Blue Canyon), 
and runs along the other side. I had meant to get to Blue Can¬ 
yon last night, but dusk was hastening along too fast and 
headed me off. 

About a mile and a half from Gorge station, the gorge im¬ 
mediately below seems deeper even than most, and there are an 
unusual number of mountain ranges in sight. The canyon be¬ 
low is narrow, and the gorge in many places 2000 feet deep, be¬ 
tween Blue Canyon and Gorge stations, as well as west of the 
latter. The varying distances of the mountain ranges are 
shown by their degrees of haziness, and by the nearer ones 
showing the brown shades of the underbrush among the ever¬ 
green trees. At the bottom of some of the gorges is a river, 
—the North Fork of the American River, I suppose,— and a 
couple of times I could make out a tiny roof. When crossing 
the mountains in the train, I had not realized the steepness of 
the mountain sides, or the depth of the gorges. 

I had dinner at a house where the woman seemed afraid 
I wouldn’t pay for it. She told me one woman had got break¬ 
fast there the other day, and didn’t pay for it, and she made up 
her mind “never to get stung again.” Said she had just as 
soon give anyone a drink of their mountain water as a cup of 
coffee. Evidently. 

Left Emigrant Gap at 7:15 a.m., by the railroad track; 
tarried from 11:40 to 12:10 at Towle; then passed Dutch Flat 
and Gold Run. 

Dutch Flat is one of the old gold-mining places, the part at 
the present railroad station having been the Chinatown of the 
place. The effects of the former hydraulic mining are plain. 
This form of mining was carried on so extensively that laws to 
restrict it were enacted. 

The mountain on which is Gold Run, and the one before it, 
are connected by a very high, narrow neck of land, on which are 
the railroad and a big irrigation ditch. If it were not for the 
large fir trees on the right, and the stumps of cut-down big 
trees on the left, it would be hard to believe that the connecting 
land was not a high, long, narrow fill for the railroad. Hy¬ 
draulic mining washed away the mountain, leaving only this 
narrow strip of land. Far, far below, on both sides, are miles 
of light gray sand, or soil, with banks, and hollows, and humps, 
—the results of the mining. This connecting ridge is said to be 
rich in gold. On the right, at one place, I looked down—a long 


342 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


distance down—on emerald-green water flecked with white 
foam. 

At Gold Run, where the postmaster signed my slip, I was 
told to take the wagon road at Magra, thus avoiding two tunnels 
and—what mattered much more to me—one bridge over a 
ravine, although the bridge has lengthwise planks and a hand¬ 
rail. So at Magra I took the wagon road. It wound up and 
around, and down and around, a long hill, with many “6 miles 
to Colfax” signs, many distances apart. 

Between two of the various “5 miles to Colfax” signs, an 
automobile was stalled at the side of the road. Just below it on 
the hill, a prairie scooner and four horses and a light wagon 
were making their way up slowly, with many rests. Later, the 
automobile overtook me and the people in it asked me to ride; 
at supper here, these people were at my table. 

Near the foot of that particularly long hill, a little rail¬ 
road crosses on its way down the ravine. At the bottom of the 
hill, two men in an auto were studying a map. Later, they 
turned their machine and came up the hill back of me, and 
asked me to ride,—which kindness to me their engine resented, 
and stalled. 

The wagon road runs through century-old pines and firs 
and hemlocks. It is a beautiful walk, and I dawdled along the 
last two miles, in spite of the approaching sunset (which these 
days is almost synonymous with darkness). 

When the road gets to the bottom of the long hill,— “3 
miles to Colfax,”—it climbs up to the railroad grade, and then 
higher, and finally comes down to Colfax. 

Colfax is—Colfax. Years ago, when coming through on 
the train, I got off for a moment and took a snapshot of Chin¬ 
ese section-hands with a hand-car here; they were the first 
Chinese I had seen working on a railroad, and were then a 
novelty to me. It has more railroad tracks and two-storey-and- 
basement hotels than I remember, but otherwise is much as I 
remember it. And yet they tell me how it has grown in the 
last two years. The Postmaster signed at 5 p.m. 

I am told the first dinner-bell used in Colfax is still here; 
it was wrought in 1866. 

Have come 30 miles to-day; and down from the 5425 feet 
altitude of Emigrant Gap to the 2425 feet of Colfax. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 
COLFAX TO NEWCASTLE, CALIFORNIA 


343 


Tuesday, November 2. 

Just before starting, I asked the clerk in the hotel where a 
road I noticed across the railroad went to: 

“That isn’t a road; it’s just a street that leads into the 
road on this side of the railroad.” 

Evidently a “road” leads from one town to another; a 
“street” only plays round inside a town. That is reasonable, 
too, though the difference never occurred to me before. 

Coming from Colfax, the first part of the way the wagon 
road ran along the bottom of a ravine; then twisted round, back 
and forth, climbing hills. The ravines and canyons were just 
as plentiful as yesterday, but not nearly so deep. 

Just west of Colfax, at the side of the Lincoln Highway, is 
a notice saying that gold was first discovered in that ravine 
in May, 1849, and that it had paid as high as $200 a pan. 

Passed “Lake Theodore” (a large pond between the road 
and railroad) and Lake Arthur ( a sage-green, smaller pond, 
dammed), both belonging to an Electric Company. 

At New England Mills, where I took to the railroad for a 
mile or two, the station is a box car. 

The walking to-day was mostly through red earth. About 
four miles east of Auburn, a man told me the road was oiled 
from there to Auburn. It was—for half a mile. Then came 
crushed rock for a mile; then dust again. It’s a question 
whether it was harder to walk on the crushed rock or in the 
dust where stones are hidden. 

Kept to the wagon road till within 2 Vz miles of Auburn, 
except for a mile or two. Most of the way very dusty or 
sandy. Either the wagon road is much longer than the rail¬ 
road, or I lost time badly. Left Colfax at 8:05 a.m.; got to 
Auburn Post Office at 2:14 p.m. Postmistress asked: 

“Are we allowed to help?” She said others who had 
called there walking through had wanted financial assistance 
in some way—some had had things to sell to pay their expenses. 
“You are in the West now, where people help.” Needless to 
say, I declined. But while I was in the restaurant near, she 
came in and whispered to the boy. When I paid him, he said 
she had told him she would pay for me. Of course I paid, my¬ 
self. 

When I asked where the Lincoln Highway was, those I 
asked didn’t know whether it ran through Auburn or not, not¬ 
withstanding the big signs on it, that I saw soon, after. 


344 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


Auburn has two stations, the westbound (the left-hand 
track as one faces west, however) being at East Auburn, and 
the eastbound station at Auburn itself, a mile away through the 
town. And by that token, it is quite a town for out here. Has 
a large courthouse on the side hill, with streets circling it and 
meeting below in the business part of the city. 

Left Auburn at 3.10; came to Newcastle by wagon road, 
something over four miles from Auburn by the road signs. 
Got to the Post Office here at 4.23 p.m. (Postmaster says he 
was born in Nevada; therefore I like him: I shall always feel 
kindly toward Nevada people, on account of the family at Iron 
Point, and the pumper and the pleasant boys at Parran, who 
so willingly took me in out of the desert). 

Think I would have tried to make Penryn, four or five 
miles farther, if it hadn't been a cloudy afternoon. At it was, 
made only about 23 miles. 

At Colfax, a few tired geraniums were trying to blossom. 
Nearer here, passed beautiful roses in bloom, large red and 
yellow ones, as well as geraniums and azinias. Saw a straw¬ 
berry bed, with leaves green, and am told late strawberries are 
still being picked in the Sacramento Valley. Passed fruit or¬ 
chards (peach or pear, or both). 

The railroad is built high on the hillsides between Colfax 
and Newcastle, the westbound track much higher than the new 
roadbed (the eastbound). Now and then they come together, 
but generally are not even within sight of each other. Am 
told the westbound track has only one tunnel; the eastbound, 
many and long tunnels. 

The trees on the hillsides to-day were much smaller than 
they are higher in the mountains, and the hills grew steadily 
lower. Colfax is 2422 feet elevation; Newcastle, $70. New¬ 
castle is built practically at the top of a hill, and is really in the 
foothills. It is 31 railroad miles from Sacramento, and about 
217 from San Francisco. 

At supper one night, there were several meats on the menu, 
and I asked for both tongue and roast beef (was stared at and 
got a very small order of each), and for cranberry sauce; then 
when I asked for cranberry pie, was told: 

“We don’t serve two kinds of desert or two kinds of meat 
at a meal,” with emphasis. (Cranberry sauce is evidently 
considered a desert.) 

“Oh, you don't!” 

“No!” 

Presently she returned with both: 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


345 


. “It’s all right this time, but we’ll add it to the charges,’’ 
—vindictively. 

One morning in a Postoffice, as the Postmistress looked 
through the glass at me and didn’t shake her head, I concluded 
there was mail for me, as I had told her the night before I 
would be in in the morning before starting to see if there was 
any. When 8 o’clock came, however, she shook her head, show¬ 
ing that she had recognized me and had already looked to see 
if mail was there. I suppose she was keeping strictly to the 
letter of the law to make me wait round till the legal opening 
time for the general delivery before she shook her head to let 
me know there wasn’t mail for me. Odd how a little thing like 
that disgruntles me. 

NEWCASTLE TO SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA 

Wednesday , November 3. 

Left Newcastle at 6:55 a.m. I was told that there was 
only one railroad bridge between there and Sacramento, and 
that one was “sanded over” and “about four cars long” and one 
hundred feet high. 

Coming out of Newcastle, saw the first palms on this trip; 
also the first California lawns, brownish in spots. Took the 
west-bound railroad tracks out of Newcastle (double track most 
of the way). On old signboards on the wagon road, “New 
Castle”, two words. Orchards on the little hillsides. 

Penryn (where I had meant to reach last night) seems to 
be more of a town than New Castle, so far as houses go. How¬ 
ever, I didn’t see anything that spelled “Hotel”; whereupon I 
remembered that some people had said that there wasn’t any 
hotel in Penryn, though others said there was. Like New¬ 
castle, it is a fruit-shipping place, though formerly it had large 
granite quarries. 

Walked over a rather long, low railroad bridge. The ties 
were not so close as on most bridges, but it was not high, and 
the iron supports were close together (about ten feet apart). 
Walking over was very unpleasant—that high bridge I walked 
over in the Sierras seems to have unnerved me. 

Through Loomis and Rocklin to Roseville, where I went to 
the post office and had lunch in the Railway Club Lunchroom,— 
a lunch counter in the basement of the clubhouse. I suppose a 
woman has no right going there—however, I went. One of the 
several trainmen eating in there said he had passed me “over 


S46 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


Truckee way and again by Blue Canyon.’” He turned to the 
others: 

“She is walking .” 

Except the man walking backwards from San Francisco 
to New York, it seems that people walking across country take 
“lifts” when offered. Someone really walking and refusing 
rides is a novelty. I have thought more than once that train¬ 
men were rather pleased that I refused, when they told me 
to get on a train that was sidetracked to let another go by. 

Which reminds me, that the hardest it has been to refuse 
a ride since just before Indianapolis, was a couple of days ago, 
when one of the big Southern Pacific oil-burning engines, run¬ 
ning light, stopped to adjust something after having passed me, 
and I caught up to it again. I do want a ride on one of those 
big engines, and told the engineer that if he would bring his 
engine round after I get to San Francisco, I wouldn’t refuse to 
ride in it. 

Rocklin, nine miles from Newcastle, is the granite place of 
California. Roseville, a nice little town, has large (long and 
wide) freight yards west of the station. 

Between Roseville and Sacramento are miles and miles of 
practically level, uncultivated land, with brown dry grass on it. 
The winter rains have not begun; everything is yet the summer 
brown. However, compared to the extent of the whole valley, 
in which grain and fruit is raised, this apparently uncultivated 
land is a small part, I suppose. 

The soil the last few days has been reddish, or yellowish- 
red, or reddish-yellow. The orchards are not so well cultivated 
as I remember them: many have a kind of coarse grass and 
such-like growing up among the trees. Perhaps people find 
that they can raise fruit without so much “cultivating” between 
the trees, or perhaps they find it too expensive to cultivate every 
year. 

After I passed Ben Ali station, the auto road crossed the 
railroad at right angles. Inquired at a house there about the 
Sacramento Post Office, and man didn’t know whether the auto 
road or railroad went nearest. A know-it-all little girl tried to 
tell me it was the North Sacramento Post Office I wanted (after 
she had run in and interviewed her mother). I gave up trying 
to get information, and continued on the railroad, though the 
man called after me to come back and take the wagon road “on 
account of those bridges,”—I noted the plural, sadly, but re¬ 
membering the “sanded over” part kept on. 

After a mile or more, “those bridges” (which are across 


I 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


347 


the American River) hove in sight. First a long strip of track 
on a trestle over the marsh, sanded over; then, a long iron 
bridge. I could see that there was more trestle beyond the 
bridge, but it was too far away to know if it was sanded over 
(which it was) or to see the hand-rail to it. The first sanded 
strip did not have railings. The iron bridge was too far away, 
too, to see if it was sanded over. 

I looked round for “help, help!” and down on one side of 
the railroad a man was hustling toward me. I wondered why 
he didn’t walk up on the railroad, and then thought maybe there 
was some other way of crossing the river besides the railroad, or 
that maybe the river bed was dry: which shows how far away 
that middle iron bridge and the river were. 

I spoke to the man, who then came up on the railroad, and I 
saw he was “queer.” Said he was crippled, and had just come 
out of a Sacramento hospital, and didn’t know just where he was 
going to stay tonight. Asked if there was anything he could 
do to help me across the bridge; that for his part he could stand 
still on the bridge and let the train go by. He must have 
walked that bridge at some time, for he said the gravel only 
went as far as the iron bridge; then ties, about six inches apart, 
and down the centre between the tracks (double track) 
there were lengthwise boards, about four feet wide; then tres¬ 
tle on the other side, covered over and sanded. All of which 
I found to be so. He asked if I wanted him to go over with 
me. I had already decided I preferred to cross alone. So I 
said, “No, indeed, thank you.” 

He felt round in his pocket—was he feeling for a knife? 
Took out some matches, the little wooden matches that come in 
bunches, broke off some, and held them toward me in the ends 
of his fingers, with: 

“Have some matches, anyway.” 

I doubted the wisdom of refusing; but as I didn’t want 
to get within arm’s length, I thanked him as nicely as I could, 
and said I didn’t need them. He took it all right. So I said 
“good-by,” and he went down the railroad bank and of course 
out of sight. Perhaps the man was really sick and that made 
him seem so queer. 

I walked the sanded part till I came to the beginning of the 
iron bridge. Heard a train whistling and saw the smoke ahead, 
and, after making sure the train was on the other track, sat 
down by the bridge sign to wait for it to pass. No other train 
from that direction would come into that section while the 
block signals were up. So after it passed, I got on the planks 


548 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


between the two tracks, and with one long look back of me for 
smoke, ran for the farther side of the bridge. Maybe it is 
only “four cars’ lengths long!” When I got part way across 
it, I could see that the farther piece of sanded trestle had side- 
rails,—joy! Just beyond the bridge is the “Alva Tower”, where 
the Brighton and Stockton trains are separated from the Sac¬ 
ramento. 

The embankment the railroad runs along is part of the 
levees built to keep the Sacramento and American Rivers from 
flooding the country. 

That high bridge I walked in the Sierra mountains has 
taken every bit of my trestle-courage away from me. Any 
trestle now is appalling; in trestle-fear I seem to have gone 
back where I was before I started on the walk. The coyote 
dread through Nevada exhausted my nerve, and then the deep 
gulch I walked over on that high bridge snapped the last bit 
of nerve I had left. 

When within perhaps a mile of the Sacramento depot, I 
got good directions to the post office. “Supt. of Mails” signed 
for me at 5:30 p.m. 

Cloudy this morning; sun shining at intervals this after¬ 
noon. To-day, 31 miles. 

Went to the Y. W. C. A. here in Sacramento; they said they 
would take me “over to the flat” where I could have a room. 
So I’m here. Have a room to myself, but there are three doors, 
and the others have to come through my room to get into the 
three adjoining rooms! A short time ago, a woman came in 
and sat on the other bed (there are two in the room,) but 
finding me more writative than talkative, she has gone to 
sleep. She is lying on the bed I want to sleep in, as the other 

one has its head directly in front of the windows, and oh!_I’m 

so tired and sleepy; I want to go by low! 

Great excitement just started: the sister-in-law of the 
Secretary of the Y. W. C. A. is supposed to have been lost in a 
steamer that drifted on to the rocks out on the Pacific Coast* 
the Secretary is going to Oregon to-night. 

Dropped my Ingersoll on the floor here and fear something 
is wrong with it, it is disinclined to tick. 

At the post office was one letter; in it an unexpected and 
unrequested money order, so that, the letter says, when this 
rags and bone and hank of hair reaches San Francisco pretty 
soon, hatless, shoeless, foodless, and penniless, it may have 
some money.” 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


349 


i 

SACRAMENTO TO ELK GROVE, CALIFORNIA 

Thursday , November A. 

All the way by wagon road to-day. After getting out of 
Sacramento itself, the road was straight. Part was asphalt 
and part rough asphalt, sanded over—whatever make of road 
that may be. Here and there was a space at the side, where 
I could walk. Ranches every little way; never out of sight of 
houses all day. Hot walking. 

Had a very unpleasant meeting with a dog. Stopped at 
“old Elk Grove” at a store. By direction of a woman in the 
store, I went to cross their yard. I told her I was afraid of 
dogs, so she said she would call theirs in. She did, opening 
the screen door for him to go into the kitchen. Then, she open¬ 
ed the door again, pointing—the dog thought at me, though 
she was of course pointing out the way to me. But he rushed 
at me and jumped for my face. I threw up my right arm 
across my face and jumped backward just as he sprang. He 
caught the sleeve in his teeth, just scraping my arm. Luckily 
I had on my heavy sweater. Although the skin was only scra¬ 
ped, the place turned black immediately. The woman put some 
turpentine on it; the man said he would have the dog killed. 
They directed me to Elk Grove, about a mile to the left, where 
there is a doctor. The doctor said if it was last year, he would 
advise treatment, as so many California dogs had rabies last 
year, but he thought the rabies had been stamped out. So he 
put something on it, aftd said he thought there wasn’t any dan¬ 
ger from it. 

By the time I left the doctor’s, I couldn’t have made Galt 
(where I had meant to stay tonight) before dark, so stayed here 
at Elk Grove. Was tired anyway, so it’s just as well. Did 
some shopping, including candy. 

Made only about 16 miles to-day. The postmaster signed at 
3:30 p.m., after I had got my arm fixed up. 

After crossing the whole of the United States from Wash¬ 
ington into California, to think that I should be bitten here by 
a dog! I have met so comparatively few dogs that wanted to be 
mean, and now—this. One man at the hotel was very anxious 
to know it I was going to have the dog killed; I told him the dog 
wasn’t to blame, it was the stupidity of the woman. 


350 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


ELK GROVE TO WOODBRIDGE, CALIFORNIA 

Friday , November 5. 

Left Elk Grove at 8:30. Took the railroad to McConnell 
(3 miles). From there, the Lincoln Highway to Galt (8 railroad 
miles farther). 

Not far below McConnell, the Lincoln Highway crosses the 
marsh by long wooden bridges. These are being repaired; I 
didn't heed the “no passing" sign, any more that I used to the 
“bridge out" signs in the Middle West. Presently, the cross¬ 
planks were not—just some lengthwise ones between the sup¬ 
ports, for the workmen to walk on. I stopped, and the men 
called to me that I could walk the planks. I started to, but 
made such poor progress that one of the them came to meet me 
and led me by the hand over the rest of that bridge. Half a mile 
farther: another open space, with not even the line of planks— 
only the supports, which are planks up on edge. But one kind 
man led me nearly across, and another came to meet us and 
took me in hand (literally), though he himself slipped and nearly 
fell off. The marsh was only about ten or a dozen 
feet below. 

Just before Galt, on advice, I left the highway and went in¬ 
to town by the little railroad track that crossed the Lincoln 
Highway. At Galt, one hotel dining room had closed up, and 
one restaurant had moved over to the Lincoln Highway. 

Had dinner there, and left a little after 12. Started down 
the railroad. Came to a very long trestle, but low—could have 
jumped off anywhere on to the marsh. Some tramps were 
lying under a tree, and one of them got up and asked if I was 
afraid to walk the trestle. I was ashamed to say yes, so said, 
“Not if a train doesn't come." (It isn't “conscience that makes 
cowards of us all"—it's the fear of appearing ridiculous). I 
said, what was the truth, I couldn’t look ahead while on a trestle, 
to see if a train was coming. So the man said he would stand 
there and call to me if a train came in sight; I walked over it. 
In all my bridge walking, I have never been able to raise my 
eyes to look for the smoke of a train; the few time I have tried 
to, my knees have gotten into a panic, and began to wobble. 

Shortly after crossing that trestle, I had a long talk with 
a man who had his team at the side of the railroad fence. He 
said he was driving along (road parrallels the railroad there), 
and saw a tramp ahead of me, and a tramp back of me, and 
didn't like to see a woman in that position, so thought he 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


351 


“would come over to the railroad and see -v A .at was doing.” He 
didn’t know that I am no longer afraid of tramps. California 
has been full of them since I left the mountains. 

In the course of our talk, he said, as so many men have, he 
supposed I stayed at the ranches on the road, and to come and 
stay at his house all night. I suggested his wife might not 
approve of his sending a stranger there; but he didn’t have any 
wife, only a housekeeper and her two children. He wanted to 
prove, he said, how hospitable Californians were. At first I 
refused, but finally said I would, though at the time I didn’t 
really intend to do so. He lived “four miles south of Wood- 
bridge, past a schoolhouse, and in a green gate.” 

While the ranchman and I were talking, the tramp that 
been back of me passed, and following him were a cat and four 
half-grown kittens. The tramp said they smelled the bacon in 
his bag. The kittens (who never, probably, had had a “home” 
and were unacquainted with humans other than tramps) weren’t 
a bit afraid of any of us; while the old cat (evidently following 
her kittens rather than the man) took a wide detour through a 
field to get past us. She had probably known people who 
lived in houses. 

A couple of miles south of Galt, I took the Lincoln High¬ 
way again, to avoid trestles. The country is so marshy that 
there are lots of low, long trestles on the railroad. 

I had intended to stay at Woodbridge; but after the post¬ 
master signed at 2:40 p.m., I went on, as I was early enough 
to have time to go back to Woodbridge for the night if I de¬ 
cided I didn’t want to stay at the ranch. It was a long four 
miles from Woodbridge. Just as the schoolhouse hove in sight 
ahead (the man had told me I could sit on the steps till he came 
home if I didn’t want to go to the house before), the man and 
his team hove in sight back of me. Evidently he hadn’t ex¬ 
pected to see me, for he got quite near before he recognized 
me; then he yelled “like an Indian”. 

The housekeeper didn’t seem to approve of my coming, but 
let me sleep on a cot in the kitchen. The land that this house 
and the next one are on, was “taken up” by this man’s father in 
1852, as homestead. The next house (some distance away on the 
original homestead) is an old ranch house, in which this man 
was born. 

Been coming south all day: about 24 miles. Hot most 
of the day. Country flat, with trees along the rivers and 
creeks. 

They tell me there are coyotes round; that they hear the 


352 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


coyotes howling nights, sometimes, and see one now and then, 
but the creatures never let anyone get near. 

WOODBRIDGE TO LATHROP, CALIFORNIA 

Saturday, November 6. 

Man at the ranch wouldn’t take any pay; so I paid his 
housekeeper. Didn’t get started till 8:45 a.m. 

From the house, I crossed a burned-over field and came 
out on the Lincoln Highway. Down it to Stockton (10^4 miles 
by Lincoln Highway signs), where the Postmaster signed at 
11:50 a.m. Here I sent my silk sweater (what’s left of it) on 
to San Francisco by mail, keeping with me the wool one I took 
from my grip at Reno. Good dinner in a restaurant. 

Stockton is a nice, homey city—the residence part much 
larger in proportion to the business part than that of Sacra¬ 
mento, apparently. Trees along the streets. 

In looking for the Lincoln Highway, coming out of Stock- 

ton, got into the Chinese Quarter,—a large one it is for the size 
of the city,—and it took some time to get out of it. To my 
chagrin and amusement, I just wandered round and round in 
it. After the mountains and deserts, I don’t seem able to orien¬ 
tate myself in a city the size of Stockton. 

Came down the Lincoln Highway to Lathrop. Ranches 
close to one another all the way. Flat country all day to-day. 
Saw some big cactus trees; also a place where they were for 
sale. 

Stockton to Lathrop, 10^4 miles by highway signs. Had to 
come a mile off the highway to get to Lathrop, and then about 
half a mile south again. The Lathrop hotel is closed; there 
used to be another, but it closed two years ago. So went hunt¬ 
ing for a room. At the third try, found one. Had supper here, 

too, and am to have breakfast. But the woman and her hus¬ 
band are such small eaters; luckily I wasn’t hungry to-night as I 
am sometimes, though probably my appetite seemed big to them. 

After supper, the lady entertained me by telling me how 
good she had been to various people. (They said grace before 
supper.) 


LATHROP TO ALTAMONT, CALIFORNIA 

Sunday, November 7. 

The 7:30 breakfast I was to have this morning at Lathrop 
proved to be an after-8-o’clock one. I wonder why many people 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


353 


in the Middle West and West seem to have no idea of doing 
things at the time they say—no idea that time matters. 

At Lathrop, some one reminded me that I still had a moun¬ 
tain range to cross. Since crossing the Sierra Nevada Range, 
I have really overlooked the fact that the Coast Range, is yet 
to he crossed. The Coast Range where I will cross it is only 
high hills, however. 

Got away at 9. Out of Lathrop took a wagon road that 
runs beside the railroad till the Lincoln Highway joins it. 
Presently the Lincoln Highway angles off, and then angles 
back till it reaches Banta. From Lathrop to Tracy is a flat 
valley, with many ranches. Was rather too warm walking 
down in the valley. Although there are lots of trees in the 
valleys, especially near the rivers and creeks, yet along the 
Lincoln Highway, it being an “improved” road, of course there 
are no trees, except those that happen to be on the ranch side 
of the road fences. The trees seem to be mostly willows and 
(I think) eucalyptus. 

At Banta, the postmaster signed at 11:10. I suppose it 
was a seemingly needless interruption to his work. Took the 
railroad from Banta to Tracy,—a straight line. Had dinner in 
the depot restaurant at Tracy; Chinese (or were they Japanese 
or Korean?) waiters. A man in the express office at Tracy 
telephoned up here to Altamont to make sure the hotel was still 
running. These Western hotels seem to have a way of going 
out of business without giving notice. 

Left Tracy at 12:50 for the 16 miles to Altamont. Sev¬ 
eral miles out of Tracy, the railroad begins to wind up into the 
hills of the Coast Range. Took the railroad up, as I was told 
the wagon road was longer, and I had those 16 miles to make 
between 12:30 and dark—and dark comes quite early nowa¬ 
days. One place I might have cut off a mile or more, by taking 
the road along a fence, but didn’t. 

Up in the hills, I didn’t see more than half a dozen houses 
in all, except at a station part way up, at a line where San 
Joaquin and Alameda Counties join, where there are a number 
of houses and barns and a big “Livermore Company’’ barn. 
About a dozen signboards were around, but there didn’t seem 
to be my station, and I couldn’t tell what place it was. 

The hills are treeless and covered with coarse brown grass 
—typical California hills. A few cattle, and horses were graz¬ 
ing on them. Coming up through the hills, the wind blew; not 
very hard at first, but as I got higher, it was hard walking 
against it, and at places it was very strong,—not so strong, how- 


354 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


ever, as the afternoon going down the canyon into Thistle, 
Utah, or that evening. 

At Cayley (a siding about 4 miles east of Altamont) a man 
with a railroad motor told me to cross to the Western Pacific 
just before the S. P. tunnel, which I did. The W. P. goes 
through a very short, curved tunnel about IV 2 miles east of 
Altamont. It is so short that it was light all the way, and I 
trotted through it. Then, to avoid a W. P. bridge, I crossed 
back to the S. P. 

Three or four miles southwest of Lathrop, the mountains 
began to show, at first like hazy clouds in the sky, and I thought, 
“Those clouds look like mountains.” An hour later, they were 
plainly mountains, and those mountains looked like clouds. 

Got here to Altamont, 27 railroad miles from Lathrop, at 
5:30—before dark, though the sun had set. Up here, they tell 
me it has been cold all day. Altamont is the pass in the moun¬ 
tains through which the Southern Pacific and Western Pacific 
railroads cross the range. Postmaster signed my slip. 

This is the only hotel in Altamont. No keys in the door of 
the room, so I have tipped a chair under the knob. It is a big 
room, and so cold I came to bed for warmth. The beds seem 
clean and nice—yes, “beds”, because there are two in the room. 

At supper, the waiter spilled gravy all down the side of my 
poor, much-abused skirt. Then he tried to wipe it off with what 
looked like a dirty dish-cloth. I asked if the cloth wasn’t 
greasy: “No; it’s a clean cloth.” But now that my skirt is 
dry, not only is the gravy as plain as ever, but a bigger greasy 
place there where he wiped it with the cloth. 

I saw a woman at one little hotel this week that reminded 
me of the woman who, with a fearsome-appearing man, used to 
run a kind of a boarding place and saloon near a summer re¬ 
sort in New York—the penny-dreadful-story hotel keeper, where 
ceilings are let down in the night and the life crushed out of 
unsuspecting guests. 

Expect to be in San Francisco the 11th—a little over a 
hundred miles yet to go. 

ALTAMONT TO NILES, CALIFORNIA 

Monday , November 8. 

Breakfast was to be at 6:30; waited till 7 o’clock for the 
bell and then went down: not even the table set. The man of 
the hotel said breakfast was late, because they had had “great 
excitement last night—one of the neighbors found dead in bed”. 


TO SAN FRANCISCO 


355 


Why that interfered with getting breakfast isn’t evident to me. 
It was ready after a time. The California cooking seems like 
the Middle West, not nearly so good as the Nevada. 

I got away between 8 and 9 o’clock. The two railroads 
and the wagon road wind round through the canyons between 
the hills. I kept to the S. P. for about four miles; then it 
curved to the left round a wide valley, while the wagon road 
seemed to run straight to the town (Livermore.) I took the 
wagon road, and was assured, at a store I soon passed, that it 
was “miles shorter” than the railroad. A sign said 4 miles 
to Livermore; some time after, I recollected that, according to 
the mile posts on the railroad, I had had only 4 miles to go to 
Livermore when I crossed to the wagon road. The wagon road 
ran straight for some time, and then, as usual, took some angles 
(angles are not reckoned in counting Western mileage between 
places). 

Got to Livermore, and had an icecream soda and two 
punches on a lottery machine, but lost; my luck has deserted 
me. 

Grouchy young man said he wasn’t “acquainted with the 
physical features of the road,” when I asked if there were any 
bridges between Livermore and Niles—it wasn’t what he said, 
but the way he said it, that was unpleasant. Even if the rail¬ 
road rules don’t allow employees to give information to pedes¬ 
trians about the railroad bridges, he could plead ignorance 
pleasantly. Another youth said there were “lots of bridges”; 
whereupon I took the railroad for a short distance—was it to 
show my independence, or not to show my fear? Then crossed 
to the highway—not being anxious to meet those bridges. 

The rain began just before I got to Pleasanton, the first 
rain of the season, but there was blue sky by the time I finished 
dinner. Thought of staying there till to-morrow, but was told 
that now the rains have begun, it may keep on raining for days. 
If I am going to get wet again to-morrow, there seemed no use 
waiting for the rain to be over to-day, so I came on. 

Before an hour, the rain poured down, and the wind blew 
hard in my face. Fortunately, the road was fairly good walk¬ 
ing. By the time I reached Sunol,—a nice little place, with 
lots of trees and a park,—the wet had soaked my skirts. There 
is a hotel at Sunol; but as I couldn’t get any wetter, there seemed 
no use stopping. Took the S. P. for about a mile; saw a bridge 
ahead, and crossed to the road, to find the bridge I had seen 
was only a highway bridge. 

Niles Canyon—the very twisty, narrow canyon between 


356 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 


Sunol and Niles—must be delightful in fine weather. Even in 
the pouring rain it was pretty. The hills on both sides are 
very steep, with lots of trees. In the canyon, in most places 
there is room only for the river (now practically dry), the 
wagon road, and the two railroads. The S. P. seems to have 
found the canyon first and built through it; so where it is too 
narrow to hold the W. P. in addition, that railroad tunneled 
through a hill, or hills, and incidentally must have saved about 
two miles. How long the tunnel is, I don’t know, but it must be 


nearly a mile. . 

About three miles above Niles, a nice fat man was fixing 
some things in a wagon. I was hesitating whether to come the 
rest of the way by wagon road or railroad (the two crossed 
a little ahead). He told me to go down to the wagon road. A 
minute later I saw why he was so emphatic about it: after cros¬ 
sing the wagon road, the railroad went over a long bridge. This 
bridge had lenghtwise planks at the side, and a hand-rail. I 
started over it, went perhaps 30 feet, and stopped. The man 
called to me to come back: that there were more bridges, and 
open ones. I came back and took the wagon road. I couldn’t 
have crossed even that bridge, anyway, for my knees wouldn’t 
have held me up. That very high bridge I crossed this side of 
Summit surely took all my nerve away—or was it the still 
higher one I didn’t cross? 

After about seven miles, the canyon broadens out into 
the valley in which is Niles. A quarter of a mile before the 
Niles post office, a woman came out of a house and talked to me. 
She said to-morrow would be fine, because “the peaks” were not 
in clouds tonight. If they are in clouds at sunset, it will rain 
next day. Just as I got to Niles, the blue sky appeared. 

Been shopping here in Niles. The rain pelted so hard, it 
just pelted the bottom of my skirt into pieces, so got a piece of 
goods to fix it with. 

Here at the hotel, the woman gave me a room over the 
bar-room, because there is a stovepipe up through from the 
barroom, and it is supposed to be warm. It is very noisy. 

Expected a money-order telegram here, but there was no 
telegram in the post office; got some forwarded mail, and two 
letters that were addressed here. The Postmaster (a woman) 
signed at 5:15. Her clerk is a pleasant little girl. 

About 27 railroad miles to-day. I am so wet. It was a 
cold rain, and was first in my face and then on my back, as the 
turns in the road brought it round.. Shoes like sponges. Am in 
bed trying to get warm. It is so long since I have been rain- 











TO SAN FRANCISCO 357 

soaked at the end of the day’s walk, I had forgotten how disa¬ 
greeable it is. 

NILES TO ALVISO, CALIFORNIA 

Tuesday, November 9. 

Got away from Niles about 10 o’clock; had to patch my 
skirt before starting out, that is, put on the bottom the piece of 
goods I bought, which is a very good match. Also went tele¬ 
gram-hunting, and learned Niles is not a telegraph-money-order 
office. In the post office, got a letter from the Haywood Western 
Union Office, saying draft was being mailed me. Why not put 
it in with the letter, I wonder! 

The road from Niles to San Jose Mission (bVk miles) is 
through a level valley at first, and then gradually rises toward 
the foot-hills. One of the peaks to the left is Mission Peak. 

I wanted to see the old mission which was founded in 1797, 
so came that way. The original buildings were destroyed in 
186f by earthquake; nothing left of them now but three steps. 
The later mission building is now being repaired (or re-made). 

“Mission San Jose” is the town—and it is only 11 miles 
from Pleasanton! Too bad I hadn’t known it when I was at 
Pleasanton, and come the short way. Had ice-cream soda and 
gambled on two “punches,” and lost! Postmaster signed at 
11:58 a.m. 

From the town to Milpitas the road goes over a long, long 
hill, now being repaired—highest parts cut down and lowest 
parts filled in. Then there is a piece of level State highway; 
more level country road; then again State highway—the latter 
good road. 

At the hotel in Milpitas had lunch, served by a Kentucky 
young man: bread and cheese and tea, and then bread and 
cheese and tea. 

Before I got to Milpitas, the gentle rain began; only it for¬ 
got to be gentle, and pelted down. But there wasn’t so much 
wind as yesterday, though it was cold. Rained all the way from 
Miltipas to Alviso. 

After I got over the long hill this side of Milpitas, the 
marshes and water of the lower end of San Francisco Bay 
came into view. The Bay (this lower end of it) runs down be¬ 
tween two lines of hills of the Coast Mountains. Between me 
and the ocean, on the west side of the marshes, have been hills 
all day. 

The road from Milpitas to Alviso is narrow, and willow- 


358 AFOOT AND ALONE FROM WASHINGTON, D. C. 

lined on both sides. These California roads aren’t? at all bad 
as wet-weather roads, when I think of the inches-deep sticky 
clay of some of the other States when it rained. The wet here 
sinks into the gravel or sand. 

The postmaster at Alviso is a woman; her daughter was in 
the office and signed at 4:50 p.m. About 27 miles to-day. 

The proprietor of the hotel is foreign—French I think. 
Wanted to know if I wanted something to drink (when he 
brought up the ice-water I asked for); said he asked because I 
had such a cold, and sometimes a drink was good for a cold. I 
agreed, but said I didn’t want the drink; that I was on the 
water-wagon on this trip. (Which reminds me that at Floris- 

ton, also, someone thought I needed drinks). 

Have another weepy-eyes-and-nose cold. Think it came 
from wearing my wet hat—it didn’t dry last night, and was wet 
and cold this morning when I put it on; later, after the rain 
began, the hat was wetter, but not so cold. 

Alviso seems to have a considerable Chinese population. On 
the way here, met a number of Chinese boys in American clothes, 
and then a big Chinese girl, and then more Chinese children. 

ALVISO TO SAN MATEO, CALIFORNIA 

Wednesday, November 10. 

Dull, cloudy morning, and raw. Wore my raincoat nearly 
all day for warmth. 

Had breakfast about 7, and started for Mountain View. 
Roads wet and cold. Crossed the flat country below San Fran¬ 
cisco Bay, getting to Mountain View at 10:30, where I had 
toast and coffee, because my morning coffee was so poor; this 
was about as good. I wonder why the coffee has been so poor 
in California. Played the punch machine again, and won a 
pound of chocolates on the second try (punches 5 cents each). 

From Mountain View (where the station agent was very 
pleasant) took the railroad track to San Mateo, except a short 
distance at two different times. At one of the stations (Red¬ 
wood City, I think) there were hedges of red geraniums be¬ 
tween the depot and street; and at some of the smaller stations, 

too. At Atherton is a big private estate running along by the 
railroad, with a high fence. 

For the first time on this trip, saw to-day the shaped-up 
evergreen trees that are so plentiful in Southern California. 

A mile or two below San Mateo, the water of the Bay comes 



SAN FRANCISCO FOSTMARK 










































































TO SAN FRANCISCO 


359 


up over the marshes, very like the Massachusetts and New Jer¬ 
sey marshes—big, ugly advertising signboards and all. 

The San Mateo postmaster signed at 4:25 p.m. About 18 
miles to-day. Many Jewish people seem to be here; more than 
I’ve seen on all the rest of the trip. 

SAN MATEO TO SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA 

Thursday , November 11. 

From San Mateo, came mostly by wagon road the first 
part of the way; then by railroad, till I got to a series of tun¬ 
nels. 

At South San Francisco, I waited on the railroad banking, 
and talked to a woman also waiting there, while the train taking 
the Liberty Bell from San Francisco passed. The bell was on 
a flat car; and, according to the papers, was supposed to have 
a guard at each corner of the car. But when the train passed 
us, the guards weren’t guarding. It was about noon; perhaps 
they were at dinner. 

Then I meandered on; and was directed away around (I 
knew it must be out of my way, but people insisted I take that 
road), and finally came into San Francisco and down Mission 
Street to the Post Office, where the assistant postmaster signed 
at 4 p.m. Sent telegrams and postcards, got weighed (113 
pounds light), and came here to the Palace Hotel. 

I do not belong to the black, the brown, the yellow, or the 
white race. I am a deep red bronze, the left (south) side of 
my face several shades deeper and bronzier than the right side. 
I can’t imagine ever being white again. 

I was to get here by January 1st. It is November 11th; 

I am nearly seven weeks ahead of time. 

San Francisco is no longer a dot on the map, with moun¬ 
tains and deserts stretching endlessly between me and that dot. 
It is a really city-the busy Exposition city, wonderfully im¬ 

proved since “the fire”. And here I am, five months and four 
days in actual time since leaving Washington, D. C., having 
walked on 140 days, averaging about 28 miles a day, having 
walked about 4000 miles. 

The last day of my long tramp is ended . 















































♦ 
























































■' 





















































































































